Full Moon, Fast Cars
by cottonmouth
Summary: Complete AU. Slashy SamDean, mentions of child abuse and violence. Dean Winchester left his father to live a ‘normal’ life. Eight years later and he is a failing teacher in a small town, ignoring anything supernatural. Until he meets Sam Miller.
1. Chapter 1

Summary – Complete AU. Slashy Sam/Dean, mentions of child abuse and violence. Dean Winchester left his father to live a 'normal' life. Eight years later and he is a failing teacher in a small town, ignoring anything supernatural. Until he meets Sam Miller.

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

Chapter 1

On the same night Sam Miller drove too fast into the town of Elmstead with the dusty moon lighting his way overhead, a young girl died.

It happened five minutes across town, in an area neither Sam nor his father would ever be able to afford to live in. The street was broad and clean, the neighbours respectable, with money to spend on luxuries like Porsches and horticultural architects. Sweeping driveways led to identical mansion-like houses, differentiated by the stucco or red brick fronting. The unnaturally green lawns were all cut to a regulation three inches.

The sweaty summer night had windows thrown open wide. The heavy scent of lavender drifted lazily through the night air like treacle, overripe and almost sickly. In one house, a young couple made love, faint moans creeping free of the bedroom window. In another, a stockbroker gave up the search for elusive sleep and turned on the TV. A blonde woman left her bed to escape to the relative cool of the living room. She passed a window, light from the room illuminating her from the side. The white nightdress she wore flowed in her wake like angel's wings, the light flickering out behind her. Children tossed and turned in their beds, irritable and sticky with heat.

The young girl who had been alive at the start of the night was one of those irritable children.

After a few hours of uncomfortably warm sheets, she overcame the instinctive fear of the dark and left her bed for a glass of water. Slipping quietly down the plush carpeted stairs, she trod lightly on the side of each step so as not to creak the board and wake her parents. She tiptoed through the still house in search of the kitchen, passing wide patio doors opening to the back yard. Brightly coloured plastic toys littered the grass, glowing iridescently in the faint touch of moonlight. The flash of strange colour stopped her in her search and led her to the doors.

A dog kennel stood close to the house. The girl pressed herself to the glass, her cherubic face squashed into flat white patches, looking awkwardly for the dog inside the kennel.

Pickle was not there.

Hot panic gripped her throat, and she rolled her face against the glass, trying to see into the dark corners of the kennel.

Nothing moved in the yard, and silent tears began to slide over her face. She reached for the dish her mother stored the house keys in, kept below the window ledge on a nearby counter. Putting the dish on the floor, she picked up the key with a pink label attached. The words 'patio door' had been written neatly on the label, but the girl was too young to read them.

Approaching the patio doors, she considered for the first time waking her dad. He would take care of it for her. But the time it had taken to find the keys had lessened her fear, old repeated words of _there's no such thing as monsters_ floating through her head.

She opened the doors and slid them back with a whisper of sound. From inside the house the corners of the yard weren't visible, and so she hesitantly stepped barefoot onto the patio.

"Pickle?" The yard was quiet and still. Another step forward, and her foot touched something warm and wet. With a little shriek she jumped back, looking down at a dark puddle on the paving. The liquid on her foot made child size footprints on the sandy stone.

An animal sound, like a purr or a growl, came from her left and she spun away in surprise, her small body clumsy on its feet. A moving patch of darkness came toward her from the shadows, and she screamed once.

Her parents awoke in their bed at the sound of a scream. On discovering their daughter wasn't in her bed, they searched the house with a growing panic. They found her outside, her blood splatters obscure red hieroglyphs on their crazy paving.

* * *

The first class of the day had just ended and Dean Winchester was already downing black coffee like it was tequila.

The Thursday morning was bright and sunny, the kids were noisy and his hangover was drilling bolts of white agony into his brain through his temples. Normally, Dean would be taking the time between classes to sneak into Chrissie Spenser's office and carry on what they begun last night. But today his head was demanding quiet time and aspirin, neither of which he was going to get until lunch.

His first class had been filled with sixteen year old students, chatting and throwing paper across his classroom and not paying the slightest attention to him. Most of the girls had spent the hour gossiping together and glancing slyly over at Dean, sat slouched behind the teachers' desk with a hand over his face. They giggled annoyingly when he looked up at them.

He was well known with both students and teachers for being easy on the eyes and easy with his grades. Mainly because the effort it took to mark endless bad essays could be put to much better use, in his expert opinion. His face was probably the only reason Principle Markenham hadn't fired his ass yet. He was a terrible role model for young minds.

Chrissie's office would be empty, the other receptionists in the staff room. Chrissie would have made some excuse to stay longer, just in case Dean decided to show up. For a second Dean considered it, but the creak of a door somewhere in the hall sent electrical pain bouncing through his skull and he dropped his head to his desk instead. She would have to be disappointed.

A knock on his classroom door doubled the pain behind his eyes. He sat up and tried to look somewhat professional in case Principle Markenham had stopped by with another complaint from a parent. He didn't know why she even bothered. All she ever did was give him a stern look, extract a false promise to make it right and then leave no better off than she started.

But today the figure by the door was not the small grey haired woman who ran the school.

"Hi. I forgot, I was supposed to give you this in class."

The new transfer student from his first period class stood in the doorway, shifting on his feet. He kept his head down, chocolate coloured hair falling forward into his eyes.

"Oh. Thanks, uh…"

"Sam. Sam Miller." Sam walked over to the desk, hands pushed right down into the pockets of too-baggy jeans, his arms almost straight by his sides. The pose emphasised Sam's tall and skinny body. He handed over a pink form which Dean added to the pile of pink forms he'd accumulated over the years on the floor by his chair.

"Thanks, Sam. I'll…do something with that." _Like throw it in the trash. _Sam flashed a pretty smile at him and lifted his face so his hair fell away, revealing green cat's eyes. Dean smiled back perfunctorily, then groaned aloud as a door banged somewhere nearby. His hand flew to his temple, trying to hold in the rapidly worsening headache.

"You want an aspirin?"

Dean looked up to find Sam holding out a white foil wrapped pack, a quirked smile showing his amusement. Dean groaned again, this time in pleasure, snatching the pack out of the kid's hand without a word. He popped two pills out of their tabs and swallowed them dry.

"Kid, thank you from the bottom of my heart, really. You've saved my life. Anything I can do for you, anytime."

Sam smiled wider. "I'll hold you to that."

* * *

"Did you see the paper today? A little girl was found dead in her backyard across town this morning. They say she was mauled by some kind of animal." Chrissie Spenser made herself at home next to Dean in the staffroom, interrupting his solitude.

The aspirin had taken effect almost straight away, killing his headache, but after three more classes all discussing the death in macabre details he was in a seriously bad mood. He deliberately didn't buy newspapers, preferring to remain ignorant of any events that might bring back unpleasant memories.

Chrissie tossed a folded-up local newspaper onto his lap, the headline bold across the front page – Girl Found Dead In Animal Attack. A picture of a pigtailed girl playing with a puppy was displayed beside it. Dean looked at it for a second before moving it away. Old unwanted instincts came into play, comparing times and dates before he could push them to the back of his mind.

"You wanna come over to mine tonight? I'll make us dinner after we get out of bed." He winked at her suggestively.

"God, is that all you think about? I can't anyway, I'm going to dinner with my parents, remember?" Chrissie narrowed her eyes. "The dinner _you_ couldn't make it to." She looked at him for a second, waiting for a reply. When none came, she sniffed and strode away, flicking her hair aggressively.

Dean sighed and slumped back. He had forgotten about the dinner. When Chrissie invited him he'd instantly made excuses not to go, because while Chrissie was nice and pretty and wonderful in bed, he didn't want her thinking they had some kind of _commitment_ to each other. She'd only started working at Elmstead High a few months ago, and he'd thought he'd made it clear from the beginning, but apparently a regular engagement for sex entailed some kind of responsibility on his part. And honestly, Dean was enjoying the sex part too much to break it off completely. It didn't hurt that she was incredibly attractive with long legs and wavy blonde hair that brushed against her breasts. He could never resist that kind of girl.

The paper caught his eye again, and against his will he picked it up.

The story described in clinical terms the brutal killing of Casey Tomlins, age 6, and her dog Pickle. The article said that the killings had taken place early this morning. Her parents had been woken up by her scream, but were too late to see what had attacked her. The surrounding neighbours hadn't heard anything before the scream, although one mentioned the dog barking. It was believed to be caused by an as yet unidentified wild animal, and all pets should be kept inside and all lower floor windows securely locked until it has been caught, etcetera, etcetera.

Dean let out a loud exhalation and violently pitched the paper onto the coffee table in front of him. Covering his eyes with one hand, he leaned his head back until it touched the back of his chair.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket and for a wild second he thought it would be his father calling him. But John Winchester hadn't contacted him for nearly eight years, ever since he'd walked out after their fight with the words _don't come back _echoing in his ears. He fished it out of his pocket. A text message. From Chrissie. _Il cum round aftr dinner. U bettr make it wrth my while._

The bell rang for the end of lunch, and Dean dragged himself from his chair with a last glance at the paper. He was tempted to walk out, just blow off final classes and take a long drive to nowhere to clear his head. He'd thought he'd been done with this sort of thing eight years ago after leaving his father. A dry laugh came out as a huff of air and he walked out of the staffroom scuffing his shoes on the floor like an overgrown kid.

* * *

Dean walked out to his car, bag slung over one shoulder. The hot sun scalded the top of his head and the keys to the Impala glittered in his hand.

His final class had been a waste of time. Hell, he doubted any wisdom had been imparted on his part in _any _of his classes today. The story in the paper was still playing on his mind, slipping to the forefront every time he tried to distract himself. His headache had returned.

He'd wondered more than once whether he should just call his dad and let him take care of it, but after everything he'd said about wanting to be his own person, he doubted a request for help now would be taken too well.

The sight of the Impala calmed him in a way nothing else could.

The sleek black car sat waiting in the corner of the teachers' parking lot, the paint shining like hot tar in the sun. Dean stroked a hand along the hood, caressing the car as another man would caress a lover. Problems momentarily forgotten, he opened the driver's door and threw his bag onto the passenger seat, the leather seat soft and comfortable against his skin. The full-throated roar brought a smile to his face as he started the engine and slowly eased out, careful of the other cars. To get to the main road, he had to drive through the students' parking lot, which pissed him off because there was always the chance that one of the idiot cocksuckers would pull out fast without warning in their beat-up Volvo and damage his baby.

Today it was the last thing on his mind as he caught a look at the car parked in the end lot.

A cherry-red 1967 Mustang, restored beautifully, all black leather interiors and sparkling silver chrome sat in the shade of a tree in the student parking lot. He blinked at he saw Sam Miller walk up to it, escorted by a blonde girl Dean vaguely recognised from one of his classes. She was chattering away to Sam, her arms flying around her as she talked. As Dean drove past, Sam smiled at the girl, a full and genuine smile showing off all his teeth and dimpling his cheeks. Dean watched him for a second, fascinated, before realising where he was. He mentally shook himself, put his foot down and drove out onto the main road, pushing a Rolling Stones cassette in the tape deck and turning up 'Sympathy For The Devil' to full volume as he went.

* * *

Sam pulled up beside the shitty ground floor apartment that was home for this week. His dad's old Cadillac was parked in front of the building taking up most of the space, so he was left to hope that no one took the sharp turn too fast to see the tail end of his Mustang hanging into the curve of the next street. Shifting the car into neutral and turning off the engine, he sat back and wished for a second that he was somewhere else, _any_where else.

His first day of school had gone pretty well. Better than some of his previous first days under different last names. The blonde girl, Jessica Moore, had been the main reason. Pretty and friendly, and not at all stuck up like he had been expecting from these rich kids with their parents' money. She had stayed with him all day, showing him around and inviting him to sit with her and her friends. He liked her, a lot. It was a shame he wouldn't be around long enough to make friends, maybe ask her out once he had gotten to know her better. He snorted without humour at the thought. Like he would ever stand a chance if she ever found out what his life was really like. He'd told her that he lived with his father, who moved them around a lot because of his job. When she'd asked what his dad did, Sam had subtly changed the subject. He was good at avoidance.

He looked through the windscreen at the back of Jim Miller's car. It was dusty and dented, the bumper held together with black masking tape. His dad didn't give a shit about appearances, unlike Sam, who would have loved to fit in, just once.

With a heavy sigh, Sam collected his stuff and got out of the car, locking it. Even towns as pristine as this had a dodgy side, and his dad always made sure they were living in it. It had the unintentional benefit of helping Sam resist the temptation to make friends with anyone. Bringing them over to this dump would end the friendship before they even got out of the car.

The apartment itself was tiny, consisting of one bedroom, an en-suite 'bathroom' that looked like it used to be a cupboard before washing facilities were crammed in, and a cramped living area-slash-kitchen.

His dad got the bedroom. Sam slept on the two-seater sofa with the broken springs that came with the place. There was no other furniture in the apartment, and his dad wouldn't buy any.

Jim Miller was currently slouched on Sam's sofa, a succession of empty cans piling up on the floor beside it. There was a mess of paper spread along the other seat, spilling onto the floor. On top of them was the local paper, its headline proclaiming the death of a young girl. His dad looked up as Sam walked in, making as little noise as possible.

"Where the hell you been, boy? I had to check this out by myself! What the fuck am I keeping you around for if you're just gonna go skipping off every five minutes?" Jim's words were slurred together.

"I went to school, remember? You told me to check out the kids, see if anyone knew anything." Sam said, taking a step backwards, out of reach. His dad didn't reply, turning back to his papers and taking another swig of cheap beer. Sam let out a breath. His dad continued to ignore him, and Sam knew he had been dismissed. Putting his bag down, he kept as quiet as possible and hoped his dad would forget he was there.

"Did they?" Jim broke the silence suddenly, making Sam twitch. He hurriedly backtracked through the conversation.

"One kid, he lives on the next street over from where the girl lived. Said last month his neighbours cat was killed, ripped apart."

"I got a homeless guy, told the police his buddy was attacked around the same time. The police didn't take him seriously, fucking drunk." His father said. Sam glanced at the growing mountain of cans, averting his eyes before his dad caught him. "I assume you didn't get an exact date? 'Course you didn't. Well going by the dates for the girl and the bum, and before that the missing pets, they all happened around the full moon. Looks like a werewolf."

Jim gave Sam a derisory glance, then turned back to his beer. "You're going out tonight. Look around the neighbourhood the girl was killed. See if you can find anything. I don't wanna see you back 'til dawn."

Sam didn't bother pointing out if it was a werewolf, it wouldn't return to the same hunting ground two nights in a row. And he had school in the morning. He grabbed his bag and walked out, leaving his dad to his drink. Maybe he could get some homework done in the car.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

Chapter 2

Squinting against the glare of the morning sun, Dean shoved his way through a mass of students, ignoring the group of girls that seemed to turn up wherever he went, tracking him with their eyes and whispering to their friends as he passed. Normally he would have given them one of his most charming grins just to hear their gasps and squeals when they thought he was out of earshot. But today he was just. Not. In. The. Mood. Chrissie, he decided, was some form of harpy in disguise. He wondered if she'd even got past the starter at dinner with her parents before rushing round to his. Not that he usually minded, girls couldn't get enough of him, it was a proven fact. But as soon as she'd gotten in the door she'd redirected their route from the hall leading to the bedroom to the living area where she sat him down for a 'talk'. When he'd heard the words _where is this relationship going_ he'd frozen like someone had smacked him, which apparently was not the reaction Chrissie had been looking for. She was all set to storm out, taking Dean's only chance of getting laid tonight with her, and in his haste to get her away from the door and into his bed, he had offered to take her to dinner the next night. It was only when she was asleep and wrapped around him like some kind of octopus with double the usual amount of limbs that he'd realised what he'd gotten himself into.

_Damn women._ He banged open the door to his classroom, dropping his bag on the floor._ Would've been cheaper just to get a hooker._ His desk was overflowing with half-marked and unmarked work, notes from other teachers, notes from students, letters he was supposed to have handed out that were now months out of date. Sifting through it all, he felt around until he found what he was searching for. A pack of cigarettes, confiscated from one of his students. After everything, he felt he deserved one.

The sex hadn't even been that good. His mind had been too pre-occupied with the story in the paper, the headline burnt into his brain as if someone had stamped it there with a branding iron. Wild animal attack. When was it ever a wild animal attack?

After he'd finished college, he'd searched for months trying to find the most boring, normal town possible to settle down in. One with no legends, no stories, no mysteries, and no goddamned 'wild animal' attacks. For five years he'd successfully ignored anything and everything happening outside the town, closing himself off and losing himself in blissful suburban ignorance like the rest of the world. And he'd almost succeeded in convincing himself that monsters didn't exist and that these sensible, logical stockbrokers and bank managers and lawyers he was living alongside had got it right all along.

But this story, the little girl killed on the first night of the full moon, had happened in his safe town. It shattered his fine webs of self-delusion and reminded him of everything he tried so hard to forget. And now he didn't know what to do. Ignoring it was his first thought, or calling his dad to take care of it out of his sight so he could go on pretending. But if someone else got killed, another child…

The door to the classroom banged open and thirty sixteen year olds flooded in, shouting and laughing and ready to learn. From him. He threw the cigarette butt out of the open window before anyone could see him smoking. Irritation at having to be there filled him but he pushed it away, took a deep calming breath like they say you should, and told himself it was all okay.

* * *

Sam sat next to Jessica on Friday morning in Mr Winchester's class, wishing he was in bed. Or at least on the sofa that passed for his bed. As he had thought, last night had been a complete waste of his time. The werewolf had moved on and staking out the same place was useless. Chances were, it had been on the other side of town terrorising neighbourhood pets. Of course his dad hadn't seen it the same way. So now not only was he sleep deprived, he also had a nicely developing black eye. Jessica had exclaimed over it, fussing around him and making him blush from all the attention. He'd told her he got in a fight the night before, deliberately keeping it vague.

Mr Winchester called his name, startling him, and he panicked for a second before realising he was taking attendance.

Mr _Dean_ Winchester, Sam had discovered yesterday after 'borrowing' several files from the school office before school hours had begun. He was twenty six, graduated from the University of Washington, and lived in an apartment building nearby. Sam also discovered from Jessica that it was a daily event for some of the girls to gather outside the school and wait for him to come in. One of them would call out a "Morning, Sir" and he would make their day with a smile. Dean Winchester also owned a really nice car. Sam had found that out for himself the day before, watching the Chevy Impala pull out of the car lot and seeing Dean at the wheel.

Jessica nudged him and he looked up through his hair at the teachers' desk calling out a hasty "Present" when he realised what was required of him. Dean was leaning against the front of the desk looking straight at him, a slight frown creasing his forehead and eyebrows. Sam looked back for a second before realising that Dean was probably looking at his black eye. He felt colour rise to his cheeks and quickly ducked his head so his bangs fell forward, concealing his face from view. Dean blinked as if coming out of a trance and looked down to continue taking attendance. Sam felt stupid, why the hell would this guy have any special interest in _him_?

"Okay, turn to page 97 and read, then do the exercises at the bottom of the page." Dean announced to the class. Paper rustled like bird wings throughout the room. Sam kept his head down and did as he was told before taking a quick peek through his hair at the front of the classroom. Dean Winchester was still leaning back against the desk, legs out in front of him crossed at the ankles and hands lightly gripping the edge of the desk at either side in what Sam had heard girls call his 'come-fuck-me' pose. He was looking straight at Sam in intense concentration, the frown still on his face.

* * *

Dean couldn't help but stare at Sam Miller. The kid obviously knew he was being watched and kept his head down so his hair hid his face. Where the hell had he gotten a black eye from? He didn't really look like the type to go out and get in fights, and besides, in this town there was practically nowhere to go on a weeknight. There was something about this kid that bothered Dean. He knew all anyone else saw when they looked at Sam was a quiet kid with an honest face and a pretty smile. But there was something that didn't quite add up with him, and only Dean could see it. It bugged the hell out of him.

"Mr Winchester? Sir?" He tore his eyes away from Sam, unintentionally fixing a glare on the poor girl who had interrupted his thoughts. The girl shrank back in her seat.

"What?"

"I..I finished the work. I was wondering what we should do next?" She said timidly.

"Just do the stuff on the next page." Dean winced a little at his tone, and looked up to find the rest of the class watching him like spectators at a bullfight, identical expressions of curiosity painted on their faces. Even Sam had let his hair fall away from his eyes and was watching with unabashed intrigue. Dean made a note to apologise to Bryony? Bethany? Britney? whoever she was after class.

"Alright, get back to work people." Most of the heads went down. Dean waited a second, then looked over to Sam again. The kid was looking down at his desk. Dean saw him stiffen minutely and knew Sam could feel his gaze.

* * *

The bell rang, startling Sam out of his doze. He jerked, looking around surreptitiously and hoping no one noticed. Beside him, Jessica giggled. He packed up his bag quickly and headed for the door, intent on getting out of the room before anyone could stop him and ask about his eye. _Damn it, _he thought, _why did he have to do it in a place everyone can see?_ Jess followed him outside and caught his arm before he could run off.

"Hey, what's the rush? It's lunch, we've got an hour before we have to be anywhere. Come and sit with me in the cafeteria." She smiled sunnily. He couldn't help but return it. He'd never met anyone like her, always cheerful and friendly, even to people like him.

He was about to accept her offer when Dean Winchester strode purposely out of the classroom. He nearly tripped over the two, catching himself at the last minute.

"Sam. And, erm…" Dean's brow creased as he searched his brain for a name. Obviously coming up blank, he gave an almost-shrug and kept talking. "So, where'd you get the shiner?"

"He got in a fight last night, sir." Jessica answered for him. "Hey, you never actually told me what you were doing when you got it, Sam?" She turned to look at him questioningly. Under scrutiny from both Dean and Jess, Sam bowed his head and peeked at them from under the fringe of his hair.

"It was just a fight. I had an argument with a guy I know, it got out of hand." Sam had long ago learned the simplest lies were the easiest to pull off. And it wasn't exactly a lie… Jessica clearly bought it, but Dean frowned and tilted his head slightly to the side like he knew there was more to it than Sam was telling.

The considering look made Sam uncomfortable but he made himself meet Dean's eyes evenly. Jessica looked at one then the other in confusion.

"Okay, well I'm going to get something to eat. Sam, are you coming?"

"Yeah, sure." Sam said, keeping his eyes on Dean.

"Well I'll see you kids in class on Monday. Be good." Dean broke the staring contest abruptly, smiling full charm at Jess before spinning on his heel and striding off in the opposite direction.

* * *

Jessica had insisted on walking Sam to his car again after their final class, linking her arm with his as soon as they'd stepped outside the building. Sam didn't really know what he was supposed to _do_ with her flirtatious behaviour, awkwardly smiling and going along with it. She seemed to find it sweet though, saying as much before stroking his face again and making _aww_ noises about his eye. He was only half-listening to her when she pulled him round to face her, a determined look in her eyes.

"So, Sam, are you busy tonight? A few of us are gonna meet up, see a movie or something, as it's the weekend, and, well you know, I'd really like it if you'd come? Like with me?" She looked up at Sam, a faint blush colouring her cheeks. She gave a nervous giggle and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Sam was momentarily speechless. _Did she just ask me out? _"Sorry, I don't really do this a lot, or at all, actually."

"God, I…I really, _really_ wish I could Jess, but after last night, getting in that fight and everything, my dad wants me to stay in this weekend. I'm really sorry." The lie slid out far too easily. Jessica looked down at her feet, her face turning a darker red. Sam closed his eyes. He hated having to deceive her but even more he hated having to embarrass her like this. When he looked at her again she had fixed a smile on her face, thin as paper.

"Don't worry about it. I understand. Some other time maybe?" Her big doe eyes blinked up at him.

"Maybe, I'd have to, you know, check."

"Oh. Well, I guess I'll see you at school on Monday then." She kept smiling blankly in his direction for a second longer and then looked down at the ground as if she couldn't bear to look at him. Without looking up, she turned on her heel and walked away quickly. Sam almost shouted out to her but it would be useless. It was never meant to be, better this way. No point deluding himself, he had a job to do. He got in the car and pulled out too fast, almost hitting someone and not really caring too much.

* * *

Sam was standing across the street from his father, who was screaming something at him that he couldn't quite make out. The werewolf prowled silently behind him, bathed in sunlight, which Sam found strange for some reason he couldn't work out. His mind was slow, thoughts drifting in and out of his head like clouds, in no hurry. People walked past the figure of his father oblivious to the danger, pushing strollers and holding the hands of small children who tugged against them to be set free. They looked oddly at his red-faced father but kept walking, ignoring the werewolf. Sam tried to point out the wolf to his dad but he ignored Sam's warning in favour of waving fists in his direction. The werewolf was getting closer to the children and Sam started to panic. He tried to cross the street but every time he stepped off the curb, a black Impala came tearing down the road and forced him back to his side. The werewolf was getting closer…

An explosion had Sam lurching forward, nearly hitting his head on the roof of the parked Mustang. He scrambled frantically for the weapons hidden in the glove compartment, his fingers still clumsy with sleep. The rev of a motor filtered through to his clouded brain and he took a look outside. A car had backfired at the end of the street. Nothing had happened, no one was hurt. Laughing with relief, Sam collapsed back against the seat. A couple crossing the street in front of his car, heading for the line of restaurants on the opposite side looked at him like he was crazy, but for once Sam didn't care what other people thought of him and he continued laughing to himself.

His father had phoned him as he was leaving school that afternoon to tell him that the werewolf had been seen by a young woman half a mile south of the neighbourhood Sam had been watching the previous night. It had leapt at her while she was getting in her car, and only the fact that she drove a Land Rover with practically indestructible doors had saved her from being bitten. After heaping yet more blame upon Sam's already guilty conscience, Jim Miller sent him to stake out the rich side of town following the assumption that the werewolf would keep moving south. Sam had driven randomly until after nightfall although the residential areas were eerily serene and still tonight. Finally he had parked up at the first sign of life, opposite a small promenade of classy restaurants and one all-night café, looking cheap and out of place in the line up. He decided to wait and see if the werewolf showed while the customers were leaving.

_Never mind that I haven't slept in nearly 48 hours._ Reality returned with a bang. He was exhausted and his reflexes were too slow to try and take on anything supernatural, let alone a werewolf. There was a good possibility he would end up as the werewolf's next victim if he couldn't stay alert. _Coffee. I need coffee._ He slipped a hand beneath the driver's seat and withdrew a revolver of silver bullets. After consideration he pulled a wickedly curved knife into his lap as well. The knife was one of two that had been given to him by a shaman-turned-illegal arms dealer in Memphis that Sam had saved from a succubi a few years back. The blades were identical, almost weightless and made of pure silver. His dad didn't know he had them or they would have been taken and sold for beer money. Any non-essential weapons were an indulgence Sam wasn't permitted to have. Sam's mouth twisted at the thought of some pawn dealer sticking them in the back of a dusty box until they were dull and nicked.

Sam hooked the blade into his belt beneath the hoody so it rested cold against the thin skin of his belly, then slid the gun under his clothes at the small of his back. Armed, he stepped out of the Mustang and went in search of coffee.

* * *

Dean cursed to himself in a variety of languages. He was already nearly half an hour late to pick up Chrissie for her goddamned date, and now the Impala, his beautiful baby, was out of gas. _It's almost as if this date isn't meant to be_, he thought wryly, before sighing and getting out of the car.

"It's alright baby, I know it wasn't your fault." He said, petting the hood lovingly. He considered calling Chrissie on his cell phone and asking her to come and pick him up, but he shook his head. It was hardly the most romantic and sensitive thing to do. "Damn it, I didn't want a fucking date in the first place." He kicked a stone away from the Impala and turned to slouch against the driver's door. The full moon hung like a cut out paper picture above the rows of neat houses, faintly illuminating the empty street. The picture of six year old Casey Tomlins flashed across his vision before he pushed it away. The restaurant was a few blocks south. He could walk it in five minutes and then call Chrissie and pretend they were supposed to meet there. The gun loaded with silver was cold in the pocket of his good jacket.

* * *

Dean walked past expansive driveways filled with white gravel and perfect paving. Hedges trimmed evenly, as if someone had used a spirit level to make them perfect at waist height lined the brilliant green lawns and flowerbeds. The dead silence was unnerving and his eyes shifted back and forth, chasing shadows and creeping patches of light from the dim streetlights above. His hand gripped the gun in his pocket, almost whipping it out instinctively at the rustling of trees in the cool breeze. He was dangerously out of practice at this and for the first time in eight years Dean wished he had kept up with his training. Why were all the houses in darkness? It was only nine at night, surely someone should be up? There were no signs of life anywhere, the still cars and gardens like a landscape painted on canvas. _You're just freaking yourself out. There's nothing there, you don't even know for sure it _is_ a werewolf._ He schooled his breathing and kept on walking. The back of his neck burned with imagined gazes and he tightened his grip on the gun.

The next street held restaurants and cafes and through the brightly light windows Dean could see people sitting at the tables, lost in their dinner companions and uncaring of the world outside the glass. He examined them like they were exhibits at a zoo, watching them put on an unknowing show for him. The Italian restaurant he was supposed to be taking Chrissie to was at the end of the street. He gave in to the urge to glance behind him. The street was empty, parked cars lining the road like sleeping guardians. Dean laughed under his breath at his paranoia and hurried across the road to the restaurant. He would phone Chrissie once he was inside.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw someone come out of the all-night café at the end of the block and head across to the other side of the road, towards the line of parked cars. Distracted by the movement, he barely had time to draw his gun as the werewolf lunged at him.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

AN – Thank you to spootycup, lizack, citruspeach, Ultimate Raisin, FastFuriousChick, Dani, Supernatural GilmoreGirls, Dean's-Goddess, Epithelial Skin, pandora jazz, Diana Shra, Just.Us.Strange.Things and gatorpez for your kind reviews, I _will_ get around to writing more detailed replies but unfortunately at the moment I'm not so good with time management ;) Have a new chapter instead, hope you guys like…

Chapter 3

Sam crossed the road back towards his Mustang, coffee in hand. He was by the side of the car and rummaging through his pocket one-handed for his keys when he heard shots. Spinning in the direction they came from, he saw the werewolf taking another lunge at a man outside an Italian restaurant at the end of the block. Reacting instinctively he dropped the coffee and went for his own gun, running towards the two figures. The man fired off another shot, hitting the werewolf in the stomach. It howled and darted back and Sam had a second to think _silver bullets?_ before he fired his own shots at the thing. The man saw him and held out an arm in his direction, trying to keep him back. Sam ignored him and fired another series of bullets at the thing, which managed to dodge most of them. It was huge but agile and the hits it had already received didn't seem to be doing much more than serving to piss it off. It took another lunge at the other man, knocking him onto his back and landing heavily on his chest. The man's gun flew from his fingers as he hit the ground, skittering across the street and out of reach. Sam fired before the werewolf could bite at the guy's neck. The thing looked up at him, its yellow eyes reflective like a cats. Sam had a second to realise he was out of bullets before it came at him.

Dean was on the ground, the tremendous weight of the beast crushing his ribs. He gasped for breath and flailed his limbs weakly, feeling useless. _Stupid, stupid, stupid. You knew things like this existed, you _knew_. How could you let yourself forget?_ The kid had come running towards him, vaguely familiar to Dean's addled brain, and he'd tried to tell him to run. But the kid had a gun as well, and what do you know, silver bullets. It was crazy and insane and for a second Dean hadn't believed it was real. But the bullets were hitting the thing and it was howling in maddened pain. Its head came down to his face, breath like rotting carcass making him choke on what little air he could force in his lungs before it was up and going for the kid. With an arm thrown across his bruised ribs, Dean rolled over, training too ingrained to ever be fully forgotten telling him to go for his gun. The dry clicks of the kid's gun told him the other man was unarmed. He was going to die and it would be because of Dean.

His arm hit the ground as he rolled and blinding fire shot through his veins. A dark patch glistened on his forearm in the moonlight and he realised it was blood. Dean's world narrowed down to the wound and he desperately tried to remember if it was a bite. The howl of the wolf drew his attention back to the situation in front of him. He looked up, gun in hand, to see the kid spin away from the werewolf with feline grace that spoke of years of hard training. The kid drew a viciously beautiful knife from somewhere under his clothes, flicking it like an extension of his arm. He gripped it with the blade pointed downward and as the werewolf spun back and came at him again, he flicked his wrist sideways in an elegant arc. The blade flashed almost too fast to be seen in front of the wolf's face. It stopped dead for a second, stunned, before dots of crimson appeared on its dark muzzle. It shook its head and howled, bringing up a huge clawed paw to scrabble at its nose. The kid brought the knife down again and the werewolf flinched away and ran from them, powerful muscles patchworked with bullet wounds.

The kid took a step after it, hesitated, and then turned back towards Dean. People from the restaurants were beginning to crowd the sidewalks either side, ignoring the fact that they'd seen an unidentifiable black beast roughly the size of a bear in favour of gawping at two men in the street. Sometimes Dean didn't get people. He looked up, meaning to thank the kid, embrace him for saving his life, hit him for getting involved, something. The he saw the kid's face. Big jade eyes, one highlighted with a ring of smudged bruising like charcoal on the skin surrounding it, watched him in wide eyed disbelief from under a mess of hair painted black by the night.

All Sam could think was 'holy crap'. Out of all the people in the world, Dean Winchester was the last person he expected to see stumbling up from the tarmac. He was watching Sam with an expression Sam was pretty sure mirrored his own. For a second all Sam could do was stand and watch the other man climb unsteadily to his feet. He was vaguely aware of the other people drawn from their expensive meals by the gunshots outside. He realised he was still holding the knife in plain sight.

Mr Winchester, his_ teacher_, was reaching for his dropped gun. A revolver full of silver bullets. So Sam wasn't the only one who knew about the werewolf. The part that spun Sam's head was _how_ his school teacher, of all people, knew that werewolves were real. But apparently there was more to his teacher than he'd originally thought. Dean Winchester didn't seem like the hunting type, unless whatever he was hunting wore a short skirt. Sam almost blushed at the derogatory thought. Insulting someone in authority seemed akin to blasphemy to him, and he recognised the influence of his father in his reaction but still couldn't control it. Sam wondered how someone went from being a teacher to being a hunter, easy as changing clothes. But it didn't look as if Dean was out hunting tonight. The other man wore smart slacks with a matching suit jacket, polished shoes and a neat dress shirt. It looked more like he was out for dinner and just so happened to have added protection on him, as some kind of bizarre insurance measure.

Dean gasped and cradled his forearm in front of his body. Sam saw a flash of blood on the fabric of the jacket reflect the light from inside the restaurant windows. It managed to kick his mind in gear, the situation catching up with him. Both he and Dean had fired shots using what he was betting were both illegal guns, he had a whole armoury of very illegal weaponry in his car and he was holding a bloody knife clearly meant for use somewhere other than a kitchen. And he doubted that any of the people crowding the sidewalk would back them up if they tried to explain that they had been defending themselves from a werewolf attack. The last thing either of them needed right now was to get arrested. His dad would literally kill him and the werewolf would get away for another month.

Sam tried to be discreet about tucking the knife back under his hoody before he stepped forward to Dean. The other man was looking at the wound on his arm, poking at it with a finger.

"Did it bite you?" Sam said, hoping his voice wouldn't carry. He had the insane urge to add 'sir' to the end of his sentence. Dean looked up at him, his face carefully blank.

"No, think it just clawed me. We gotta get out of here before we get arrested."

"My car's across the road." Sam said.

"C'mon then, let's book."

No one tried to stop the crazy men as they swiftly climbed into a car and pulled out down the road. When the police arrived a few minutes later, none of the people could remember the men's faces.

* * *

They drove in silence after fleeing the scene. At any other time, Dean would be enjoying the soft growl of the vintage Mustang's powerful engine, but tonight he was lost in his own muddled thoughts. He'd always known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it would all catch up with him. He couldn't outrun his past and maybe he shouldn't have tried. People like Casey Tomlins were dead, and he knew the thing that killed them intimately. His eyes burned for a second and he desperately wanted to call his dad.

The car stopped suddenly and Dean was torn from his thoughts. He turned to the driver's seat and found Sam blinking puppy dog eyes up at him. And Jesus Christ, but Sam was the very last person he'd expected to see fighting a werewolf. The kid looked too fragile, too young and pretty to be living this life. The way he had handled that knife…

Sam looked unsure, like he was trying to figure Dean out, and Dean realised that he wanted to know Sam's story as well. He was suddenly overcome by the irrational urge to ask reams and reams of questions, fire them at the kid and find out everything. He wanted to know how, why, where, when. He wanted to know if Sam hated it like Dean himself had. It was ridiculous, this desperate need to _know_, but the shock of finding out that he wasn't the only one to grow up like this was overwhelming. Dean had a serious line of interrogation ready to spill out of his mouth when his natural inclination to treat everything as if it didn't faze him, as if he wasn't affected by anything, regained control.

"So, kid. Guess you're not an ordinary transfer student, huh?" Dean said with a half-smirk. Sam looked evenly at him for a second.

"Guess you're not an ordinary teacher either." Sam could obviously be unfazed with the best of them. Dean huffed air through his nose.

"I guess not." They both looked blankly at the black windscreen, the outline of the car in front barely visible. Dean's mind was still screaming at him to _ask_, to be serious with someone for once in his life.

"Are you sure you're not bitten?" Sam asked quietly. The part of Dean that shied away from any kind of in-depth discussion rejoiced at the change of subject.

"Yeah. No teeth marks, just a clean cut." Sam said nothing, continuing to look away. "Look, you can check it for yourself if you want to, kid."

"My name's not kid, it's Sam. Let me see it." Dean smirked silently but held out his arm obediently and let the kid poke around. His fingers were cold on Dean's skin, but he was surprisingly gentle.

"It's deep. It'll need stitches." Sam said.

"Well it's not like we can stop off at a hospital."

"I know. I'll stitch it." Dean looked at him in silent surprise. "I mean, if that's okay with you." Sam ducked his head again, faint colour on his cheeks. Sam didn't look too comfortable ordering people around, and even though they weren't in the classroom anymore it seemed he was still struggling not to call Dean 'Mr Winchester' and raise his hand every time he wanted to speak.

Dean studied him for a long minute. He couldn't be serious about sewing Dean's arm back together, just like mending a torn tee shirt. But then Sam didn't look like the kind of person who joked a lot. And he did know enough to fight a werewolf, so it stood to reason that he would have some experience in tending wounds as well. Either way, Dean couldn't think of a better way to solve the problem right now without some very annoying queries coming out in a hospital. Especially if the cops had gotten a decent description of the two of them from the people outside the restaurants.

"Okay kid, I assume you know what you're doing. But as nice as this car is, I don't think it's really ideal as an operating theatre." Sam nodded his head at something outside Dean's window. Dean turned to look in the direction and found himself staring at his own apartment building.

"I thought you'd probably want to go home and get that taken care of." Sam looked nervous. Dean realised the kid probably thought he was going to be pissed off that Sam had apparently been making background checks on him. Because Dean wouldn't have done the exact same thing in Sam's position if he were researching a supernatural creature who could be anyone. He let out a breath.

"Come on then kid. Let's go get this stitched."

"My name is Sam."

"Okay then, _Sam_. I guess you can call me Dean."

* * *

Dean unlocked the front door to his ground floor apartment. Sam stepped in after Dean and closed the door behind them, leaving them in darkness until Dean hit a light switch. Blinking at the glare, Sam took a look around. The front door led straight into a good sized living area. The room was decorated simply but tastefully with framed pictures on the walls that Sam would bet anything had come with the place, and magazines on cars spread about untidily on a coffee table underneath a used coffee mug and a dirty plate. It felt lived in and homey, right down to the pile of unwashed dishes Sam could see over the counter dividing off the kitchen area. He felt envious of Dean Winchester all of a sudden, that he obviously knew the things Sam knew but he could still live a normal life, have friends and a job and a messy apartment.

"Well, kid? Does it meet your approval?" Sam was drawn out of his reverie at Dean's

teasing tone.

"Sorry." Sam said.

"You were looking like you'd never seen an apartment before."

"Sorry." Sam repeated. "D'you want me to stitch that now?" Dean gave him a sidelong glance then nodded.

"The bathroom's through here." He followed Dean through a door that led to the bedroom. Apparently it was an en-suite. He felt suddenly shy about being in his _teacher's_ bedroom at eleven at night. The room smelt of spicy aftershave with an underlying scent of dirty laundry. The smell wasn't unpleasant and Sam found it vaguely comforting, reminding him that Dean wasn't his teacher right now. Right now he was just a guy who needed Sam's help. On Monday he could become Mr Winchester again.

"You got stuff to take care of the cut with?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, I'll wash it out first. Wait here a sec." Dean stripped off his suit jacket. "Damn bastard ripped my good jacket. And my Goddamn designer shirt. Like I can afford to buy new designer clothes every other day…" Sam's mouth twitched as Dean continued complaining to himself, the words fading off as he disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door.

Sam was left alone to take a look around at Dean's bedroom. It was dominated by a huge double bed with dark blue sheets. _Bed sheets. When was the last time I saw those?_ Sam allowed a bittersweet smile to touch his lips before turning back as Dean came out of the bathroom. He'd stripped to the waist to clean his forearm and Sam could see the bruising already beginning to show around his chest. He could also see muscles rippling under taut skin as Dean walked towards him, and he stared for a second before blinking and ducking his head a little so the hair fell back in his eyes. _So not the time, Sammy._ He reached out for the supplies Dean held out to him.

"So, you wanna do this on the bed?" Dean asked. Sam flushed a little as his previous thoughts converted the innocent question into an unintended innuendo.

"Okay. Can-can you sit on the edge." Dean sat like a trained puppy and held his arm out to Sam. Sam took a deep breath to quell the slight shakiness that had come over him. He knelt in front of the older man and gently took the offered limb without meeting Dean's eyes, stroking light fingers over it. The shake was gone, his hands sure and easy with the too-familiar task. The cut was deep but clean and blood wasn't gushing so there was no damage to an artery or vein. He blotted away the fresh blood welling in the wound with a towel and began stitching in a neat row with the curved needle and surgical thread Dean had passed to him. He wondered how many times Dean had needed stitches before to keep supplies readily available in his bathroom. He heard Dean's breath catch as he sewed but he didn't look up. As he finished, the intense concentration that had been sustaining him left in a rush and he almost toppled over as he was hit with a jaw-cracking yawn.

"Whoa. You alright there kid?" Dean looked concerned.

"Yeah I'm good, just tired. And it's Sam." His lack of sleep was catching up with him. He remembered that he hadn't even had time to drink his coffee before the werewolf had attacked. His adrenaline high had drained him completely. "Don't suppose I could have some coffee while I'm here? I'll go straight after, I promise." He put on his most pathetic face.

"We got time for coffee. Don't want you keeling over on me with a werewolf around. But we better make it quick, we've only got about six hours to kill the sonovabitch." Sam looked up in surprise.

"Wait, you're coming with me?" Dean blinked at him.

"Well as soon as I get this bandaged and put some clothes on." He waved the newly stitched appendage. "Didn't think I was gonna let the bastard get away, did you? And no offence, kid, but you look dead on your feet. You're not going after it without someone watching your back." Sam suddenly felt ridiculously happy at Dean's proclamation that _someone_ cared what happened to him, even if it was only out of courtesy. He got to his feet unsteadily, Dean catching his arm as he swayed. Dean was looking at him with that half-frown Sam had felt focused on him in the classroom. It seemed like years ago now.

"You sure you're okay, Sam? When was the last time you slept, anyway?"

"'M fine, I slept the night before last, a little. I just need to drink some coffee and I'll be fine." Sam gave a weak smile.

"If you say so." Dean looked unconvinced but he waved his good arm at the door. "I'll get changed, there's coffee stuff out there in the kitchen if you don't mind making it yourself." Sam dutifully turned and walked to the door. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dean half-turned with his back to Sam stripping off his slacks in favour of jeans. The sweeping line of his spine encouraged Sam's gaze downward. His face flushed when he realised what he was doing and he turned away quickly. _Still not the time, Sam._

Dean waited for Sam to leave the room before bringing his arm up for a closer inspection. The stitches were in an even row, small and tidily done. He wondered how much practise the kid had with stitching people up and who exactly had taught him that useful skill in the first place. Dean pulled on jeans and a semi-clean tee shirt before attempting to wrap a bandage around the wound. After several failed tries, he gave up and walked to the living room to ask Sam to do it for him.

Sam was leaning back against the counter that separated the living room from the kitchen, cup of freshly made coffee in hand. He was looking at Dean's apartment with the same unidentifiable look he wore when he came in.

"Can you wrap this for me?" Dean asked, breaking Sam's concentration on the room. Sam's head jerked in his direction and Dean caught a deer-in-headlights look before Sam blinked it away.

"Sure. Are you sure you want to come with me tonight?"

"Hey, the bastard nearly killed me. I want a little payback." Dean said, flexing his arm as Sam finished patting the bandage into place. "Besides, the thing's wounded and it can't have gone too far. It'll be easier to find it and take it down with the two of us there. Then we can _both _get some sleep."

"Okay. As long as you're sure." Sam tried to stifle another yawn. He blinked at Dean, seeming to look _up_ at him, even though they were pretty much the same height. "We should probably get going, before it gets too far away." He drained the last of the coffee and walked into the kitchen, washing out the mug, drying it and replacing it in the cupboard he'd found it in, much to Dean's bemusement. He raised an eyebrow watching Sam folding the wet dishcloth and hanging it on a hook by the side of the kitchen sink that Dean hadn't ever noticed was there before.

"You don't have to do that, you know." Sam flushed a little.

"Sorry. I-I guess I'm just used to tidying up."

"And stop apologising for everything."

"Sorry." Sam looked at the floor, avoiding eye contact as he slid past Dean to the door. Dean stared after him for a second before following him out, grabbing his beat-up leather jacket on the way.

* * *

The Mustang waited silently at the curb, the paintwork gleaming crimson in the dull light. It seemed to drain the colour from the street around it, almost humming with unused power. It was the type of car that was only meant to be driven fast, Dean mused. Sam was standing by the driver's door, one hand on the roof supporting him whilst trying not to look like he needed it. Dean made his way to the passenger side and swung into the seat. Now he wasn't bleeding, he had time to appreciate the simple beauty of the car which was obviously lovingly maintained. _Not that she's any better than my baby, of course._ Dean worried for a second about his beautiful Impala, on her own a few blocks away. He didn't like leaving her on some strange street all night but, he acquiesced, tonight he had more pressing matters to focus on. Like making sure the kid didn't accidentally fall asleep on the job and get himself killed. Dean was starting to like him.

"So how'd you get a car like this? No offence kid, but you don't really seem like the type." Dean asked as Sam got in.

"It was a wreck when I got it. I fixed it up myself. Gave me something to do. You know, when I wasn't…" Sam trailed off.

"Fighting werewolves?"

"Werewolves, demons, angry spirits. Whatever I was sent to fight. I needed a car, so I thought it might as well be a decent one." Sam didn't look at him, starting up the engine as he continued in a dull voice. "Thought it might make me feel a bit more normal."

"And does it?" Dean watched Sam's carefully blank expression. His jaw tensed almost imperceptibly before he answered.

"Not really." Dean could sympathise. Back when he followed his fathers orders, normal seemed like a glittering dream, full of possibilities and promises. He had soon learned at college that 'normal' mostly consisted of monotony and hard work.

Sam stamped on the accelerator, the car coming to life with a roar and peeling into the street. He still didn't look Dean's way, keeping his face turned to the outside world.

"I thought we should probably stay clear of the restaurants, in case anyone recognises us. If we drive around the houses, see if we can find anything?" All business. Dean was itching with curiosity, wanting to ask about Sam's life. A strange kind of empathy made him relate to what little he knew about Sam, the first time in a long while he'd actually been bothered about someone else, but it seemed Sam didn't want to talk about it and Dean really didn't enjoy heart-to-hearts anyway. Initiating them himself would be the equivalent to driving his head through the nearest brick wall. Multiple times. So he leaned back and enjoyed the thrum of the engine, watching the blackness fly past the windows in silence.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

AN – Thank you for all your reviews, they inspire me to write more so keep up ;) Here's the next chapter, hope you all like it…

Chapter 4

Dean's cell phone broke the silence in the Mustang with its tinny version of Led Zepplin's 'Stairway to Heaven'. Both Sam and Dean jumped a little at the sound, Dean fishing it out of a pocket quickly. He glanced at the caller ID, let out a long theatrically drawn out sigh and hung up without answering it. Sam caught a glimpse of the screen before Dean switched it off, catching the name 'Chrissie' lit up in LCD light.

"Didn't want to talk to her then?" The impudent question came out unchecked before Sam could think it through and he instantly wished he could take it back. His bad mood was making his mouth run and from what he'd seen, he doubted Dean was the kind of person to put up with it with a smile. He looked over at Dean, expecting the other man to tell him it was none of his business. Instead Dean was watching him with an amused smirk on his lips.

"Not particularly. I'd imagine she's pissed that I never showed up to take her out tonight."

"So you're just going to ignore her?"

"Yep. What, you think she'd understand if I explained it to her nicely? At least this way saves me having to break up with her." Dean winked at Sam. "Guess that's another thing I can thank you for, kid." Sam looked at him silently for a second before turning back to the road.

"Oh no you don't, kid. I shared with you, now you share something with me." Sam blinked incredulously at the road beyond the windscreen. Dean thought telling him about his cancelled evening plans constituted sharing? Maybe there was someone in the world more socially inept than him. And what exactly was Dean asking him to share?

"Like what? And the name's Sam."

"Like what's with the pissy mood all of a sudden?" Of all the possible questions Dean could have asked considering the revelations of the evening so far, and he wants to know about Sam's _mood._ Sam swallowed a huff of laughter before Dean could notice. "Seriously kid, did I do something to piss you off?"

"No, it's just…lack of sleep, you know." Sam said, swallowing the habitual _sir_ that threatened to spill out.

"So what, you've been up the last two nights trying to catch this thing by yourself? 'Cause I gotta say, that's a really stupid plan. You can barely stay awake, let alone fight off a werewolf." Dean's comment echoed Sam's earlier thoughts. All the teasing had left Dean's face. Instead he was watching Sam with something like concern.

"Yeah well, if I don't, who else will?" He answered quietly, half-hoping Dean couldn't hear. Sam thought of his father, probably passed out on his sofa in a fortress built of empty beer cans. If he didn't get this thing tonight he could expect a lot worse than a black eye. He pressed down a little on the accelerator. Dean may know about the supernatural but he had no clue about Sam. Sam bit his bottom lip. For a second he was tempted to tell Dean everything. But that wouldn't get the job done.

Dean watched Sam's face close up at his last statement. Damn, he thought he was getting somewhere with the indirect line of questioning. But Sam was apparently expert at ending conversations he didn't like. Unfortunately for Sam, Dean was nothing if not persistent.

The car took a sharp left, almost throwing Dean out of the bucket seat. It occurred to him that maybe getting Sam riled up while he was driving wasn't the smartest idea Dean had ever had.

"We're in the neighbourhood it must have been hunting in before it showed up at the restaurants." Sam said. The streets were still eerily deserted, the only people out and about being Sam and himself.

"Guess they all took the warning in the paper seriously." Dean muttered, remembering his walk through the same deserted neighbourhood.

"What?" Sam said, slowing the Mustang to a crawl so they could look for any sign of the werewolf having passed through the street.

"They said it was a wild animal attack on that little girl. Said everyone should keep pets indoors at night and lock up." Sam snorted without humour.

"Wild animal attack."

"Yeah, my thoughts exactly."

"You know, for all their misplaced concern, they've actually made this thing harder

for us to track. We could do with a few cats and dogs for it to come after." Sam shone a quick grin in Dean's direction. It lit up his whole face for a second, white teeth flashing in the darkness. Dean was momentarily mesmerised by the change and he remembered Sam's full smile from the day before, seeing him genuinely happy in the parking lot at school as he drove past. Turning his mind back to the present he noticed the grin had been replaced with a questioning look, held in check.

"Heh. Yeah, the irony. Well, what do you suggest?" Dean hoped his quick blush was unnoticeable under the cover of darkness.

"Well, unless you want to get out and play bait again, I think we're going to have to do this the hard way."

* * *

They pulled over by the sidewalk. It just so happened to be the same road that had panicked -_not panicked, concerned_- Dean only a few hours earlier. Now that he was back with another person by his side, the feeling of being watched was gone completely and he wanted to laugh at himself for getting so worked up over nothing. Of course, _nothing_ had attacked him pretty soon after his uneventful walk. So maybe exercising caution and trusting his instincts was a good idea. He realised his dad would have said the exact same thing. Too bad he hadn't taken his dad's advice before. Not keeping up with his training was stupid, and dangerous. If John Winchester was here, he would kick Dean's ass until it was black and blue just to show him how stupid his stubbornness was.

Dean didn't have John around but he did have Sam, and he was pretty sure Sam could put some colourful bruises on his behind if he screwed up. _If the kid finally got over the whole teacher/student thing._ Dean turned to the window to conceal his grin from Sam. For some reason Dean wasn't quite sure of, he wanted the kid to feel that Dean had his back, that he was worthy of Sam's respect as a partner. It was the first time in a long while that Dean actually cared what someone else thought of him.

"So I figure, we load up with silver bullets and take a look around, see if there's anything that might suggest it was here. We should stay close." Sam said. "We don't want to get taken by surprise again." Apparently not needing a reply from Dean, Sam stopped the car and got out. Dean followed him to the trunk, intending on giving some sort of indignant remark about not being consulted. Not that Dean had a better plan, but it the principle of it demanded a reply. He was instantly stopped short as Sam opened the trunk.

The fake bottom was actually much like the one in Dean's own car. He no longer used it as a weapons storage space after leaving his dad, but it came in handy when he had something that needed hiding. At college it had been especially useful when campus security had sprung surprise room checks. Sam's trunk was clearly _not_ used to hide home breweries and marijuana. It had been kitted out with the latest weaponry, all looking shiny and new. Laser-sighted rifles, flare guns, hand guns, shotguns and boxes of ammo greeted Dean. There were also racks of well cared-for knives lining the lid, strapped in place with soft leather. Sam obviously favoured close combat, the skill evident in the way he had handled that curved blade against the werewolf. Dean had always been better with guns and explosives, anything that was quick, deadly and caused maximum damage. He wondered for perhaps the thousandth time that night how a sweet and innocent-looking kid like Sam had come into this way of life.

"So, are you gonna actually _pick up_ any of these, or are we waiting for you to develop some form of telekinesis?" Sam was trying to suppress a smile at Dean's near-worship of the guns. Dean half-heartedly tried to work up the righteous indignation again. He soon gave it up in favour of taking the pretty new gun Sam held out to him, butt first. Dean knew he was grinning like a kid taking his first peek at a pair of tits, but honestly he didn't much care.

"Alright, what now, oh mighty leader?" Dean said after taking a moment to pet the gun. Sam went red and Dean figured the kid had just realised that he had been ordering his teacher around.

"I…" Sam stuttered. "Well, I thought…maybe, you know…" Oh yeah, he had definitely screwed up the kid's confidence now. And they really didn't have time for an emotional crisis. Sam needed to get over this whole respect-thy-elders kick, at least for tonight, or they would have no chance at taking on the werewolf.

"Okay, look kid. I wasn't taking a dig at you. You're the one with the most info on this thing, and I'm out of practise at the whole hunting deal. I know at school I'm the teacher and you're the student, but here you're in charge and I'm following your lead, okay? We're partners. _Equals_." Sam looked unconvinced for a second before his expression evened out, erasing the worry lines that had engraved themselves onto his face.

"Okay. Partners."

"So what do we do now?" Sam took a breath and blinked at Dean, a slight smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

"Let's take a walk."

* * *

"So how'd you go from hunting to teaching?" Sam had been trying to find a tactful way of asking the question but sleep-deprivation had driven all subtlety from his brain. What the hell. Bluntness was probably the only way he was going to get a satisfactory answer anyhow. And if Dean didn't like the question the worst he could do was not answer it. Sam hoped.

Dean had stopped walking and it took Sam a few seconds to realise that the expression on the older man's face wasn't anger but surprise.

"What? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I was just curious." Sam said defensively, his cheeks reddening. Dean shook his head in something like amusement.

"It's not that. It's just, I've been trying all night to figure you out without offending you and then you go straight for the jugular."

"Oh. Well, you could've just asked." Sam wished everything he said wasn't coming out sounding so petulant and childish. He was probably proving to Dean that he was just an immature little brat. Dean was the first person he'd met who actually seemed to give a damn about him one way or the other and he desperately wanted the other man to like him. _Schoolboy crush,_ his mind whispered._ Literal _schoolboy crush.

"Okay kid. I'll answer your question if you answer mine."

"It's Sam. And okay." A slow grin spread across Dean's lips. Sam hoped his staring wasn't obvious but he couldn't seem to break his gaze from Dean's expressive face. He had a feeling Dean was only letting him see the emotions he wanted Sam to see though. _Maybe it's a byproduct of hunting. It teaches you how to become an award-winning liar. Or maybe I just don't know what honesty looks like. Maybe I never got a chance to see it._ Sam put a stop to his self-pitying thoughts as Dean began to talk.

"It was my mom that started it. She died when I was four, she was killed by a demon. My dad kind of went on a crusade to get revenge for her, and he dragged me all over the country, hunting things and trying to find the demon that killed her. I was supposed to grow up and be his soldier, but I hated not being able to make friends or talk to anyone. So I applied to college behind my dad's back, and when he found out, he told me to leave and never come back. And I did." Dean blinked, eyes widening for a split second, and Sam got the feeling that he hadn't meant to tell that version of the story. The unexpected honesty he received from Dean renewed the urge to tell the older man everything. The bruising around his eye throbbed suddenly in warning, and Sam bit down on the compulsion. Nothing would be gained by telling, and Sam couldn't bear to lose what little pride and dignity he hadn't already lost. He didn't want Dean to see how ugly he really was.

"So what's your story then kid?" Dean asked, trying to move the conversation away from himself. Dean's face was pale as if someone had whitewashed it, and it was further bleached by the sickly yellow of the full moon above. Sam turned away from Dean and started walking, hearing the older man pick up the pace again and fall in beside him. Without looking at Dean, Sam gave the abbreviated child-friendly version.

"It's actually pretty similar to yours. My mom was killed by a demon as well, when I was a baby. I don't remember her at all. My dad packed us up and took us off hunting. He left me with other hunters when I was younger, martial arts specialists, weapons specialists, anyone who could teach me to fight better. He still does it sometimes, when he's off looking for something to kill. He does the research and then sends for me, and I go after whatever it is he's found for me to hunt. So far he hasn't found the demon that killed my mom." Sam walked a little faster as he finished the story, sensing Dean's new questions and stupidly trying to outrun them.

"Wait, so your dad just orders you to go after these things by yourself? And you do it? He sent you out tonight and the last two nights, even though you're likely to get yourself killed in the state you're in?" Dean was speeding up to match Sam's pace, looking at him with incredulous anger. Sam's defences rose, and he was stamping down on those traitorous feelings of _It's not my choice, I don't want to do it, I want a life as well_ until they crystallised into righteous anger on his fathers' behalf.

"I do it because I have to. I know how to kill the demons and monsters that attack small children. And it's not something ordinary people can do. I have to do it because if I don't, who else will?" Sam looked at Dean, suddenly hating him. "I can't hide from it like you can." _But God, how I wish I could._ The envy of Dean's ability to adapt to normality and apparently escape his own father like Sam was never going to be able to do gripped him deep in his gut and twisted painfully.

Dean stopped dead, catching Sam's arm and spinning Sam to face him. His brows were creased and his jaw tense in anger. "I don't hide. Not anymore. I'm here with you, fighting a goddamn _werewolf_ after I swore I was done hunting. So don't you dare judge me. Don't you dare. I gave up all the family I had so I could have my own life. And you know why? Because I was sick of following daddy's orders all the time. Maybe _you_ should try it."

Sam opened his mouth to reply then shut it with an audible click of teeth as he realised his role as devil's advocate. He was defending a cause that he didn't believe in himself. Was he really that brainwashed by his father? Everything Dean had said was true and yet he was still denying it. He _was_ sick of following his father's orders, but Dean didn't understand that those orders came with the promise of a beating if he screwed up. That was something Dean clearly never had to deal with. He couldn't bring himself to meet Dean's eyes. Sam stared down at the black tar of the sidewalk, knowing he was unworthy of Dean's anger. Knowing he was unworthy of _Dean._

For long seconds they stood, silent and still as sculptures made of ice. Dean's grip on Sam's arm had softened the minute he grabbed onto it, and now it was more a soft touch of his hand than a violent grasp. Sam gathered up his courage and lifted his head. Dean's face was no longer twisted in fury. Instead, his head was cocked to one side as if Sam were a particularly complicated puzzle Dean needed to work out. His hand was warm on Sam's upper arm and the other man made no move to take it away.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." Sam said, watching Dean from beneath brown bangs. Dean just looked at him with the same lopsided stare until Sam grew uncomfortable under the scrutiny and his eyes darted to the side without permission. Finally Dean lifted his hand and turned away.

"It's okay. I know what you meant, and it's okay." Dean walked on, leaving Sam hurrying to catch up with him. His arm felt the ghost of Dean's touch long after he let go.

Dean walked, breathing in the cool night air to try to clear his fogged brain. Sam was right. He was hiding. The kid was scarily perceptive. He wished he had Sam's dedication to the cause. Then maybe he wouldn't have gotten so lost. But he couldn't have gone on like he had been with his father, he reasoned. He couldn't have gone on fighting his father's fight when he didn't believe in giving his life for a ghost he could barely remember anymore. He needed a living, breathing reason. Like John Winchester had. For John, Mary was still alive and demanding vengeance, but to Dean his mother was cold in the ground, ashes that had burnt away long ago and only the memory of her smile and her soft blonde hair was left behind.

Sam wasn't telling him everything. Long years of lying for a living had taught him a thing or two about concealment and avoidance and Dean knew there was something that Sam wasn't ready to share with him. What surprised Dean was his own willingness to wait until Sam was ready. He wanted to know the kids' deep dark secret, and he wanted Sam to trust him enough to take him into his confidence. The brief contact he had taken, his hand on Sam's arm, hadn't been nearly enough. Dean had wanted to stretch it out, make it memorable in some way, because he had the impression that Sam hadn't been on the receiving end of many touches given in comfort or reassurance. For all his defences and astute observations and cutting remarks that left Dean reeling, Sam struck him as desperately vulnerable in some way, like an abandoned puppy expecting a kick but hoping deep in his heart for a cuddle and a kind word.

Dean tripped over the curb, catching his balance but knocking his thoughts askew. He looked behind him sheepishly at Sam, who gave a shy smile from under his fringe of hair. Dean grinned back, an honest smile for once, and their tentative gazes locked for a second. As if a mutual agreement was silently made, they pushed their fight aside for the time being.

"I haven't seen any sign of it, do you think that means it's been here, or that it might come later?" Dean asked.

"It's close to the restaurants, but not that close. I'd imagine it's around here somewhere; we just need to look out for it. And be careful, for all we know it's hot on our trail. We haven't exactly been quiet." Sam's cheeks coloured a little and Dean found it hard to concentrate.

"So we should just stick around, wait and see if it turns up?"

"Unless you have a better plan? It wouldn't have gone far, not with those silver bullet wounds. We'll hear it if it tries to attack anything again." Sam said.

"As long as it's not us it's attacking." Dean said. "Once a night is enough for me."

They kept on walking, the night air kissing their cheeks in soft gasps. The red brick houses squatted at regular intervals either side of them along the street, precise measurements keeping the distance between each exact. Huge council approved oak trees had been set in the tarmac along the sidewalk to create an aesthetically pleasing picture, an advertisement for the rich and wealthy way of living. Live here and you won't even have to leave home to see the beauty and majesty of nature. It's brought to you in neatly contained boxes to avoid dirt and mess. Unfortunately, on a teacher's salary it was unlikely that Dean would ever be an occupant of one of those pristine houses. It was a good thing he kinda liked the mess then.

Nothing in the neighbourhood seemed out of the ordinary. Dean began to think that maybe they had missed the werewolf. Maybe it'd had enough for one night and had gone to ground to await the morning, continuing its drawn-out massacre at the start of the next full moon. He almost hoped it had. His ribs were aching in a dull and faintly sickening throb and he wasn't feeling much up to a rematch with that thing. Sam was marching forward in steady strides, his footfalls silent on the dry sidewalk. It seemed he had been well trained; even with next to no sleep he was a near perfect hunter. And no wonder, with the way he had been brought up. Even with only half the story, Dean guessed Sam's childhood had been a lot stricter than his own. His dad had at least allowed him time to be a kid, to watch cartoons on Saturday mornings and drink chocolate milk at the truck stop diners and play with the hot wheels cars he had found abandoned in a playground one day and brought home as his own. John may have been ex-military but he had taken care of Dean all the same, been a father to him as well as a teacher. He couldn't imagine his dad packing him off to other people to learn how to fight, leaving him for a few months and then returning to pick up the new improved version like a trained attack dog.

John would probably like Sam, Dean thought with a half-smile. They would get on well. Sam would be the dedicated hunter and son John never had, obeying orders instantly and never questioning the reasons behind them. Dean wondered if Sam would have had the same attitude if he'd grown up with John. _Probably,_ he thought. _Hunting is his life. He doesn't seem to need anything else._ Dean remembered himself at Sam's age. He'd been so confused, ashamed of wanting more from his life. He had resented John for making him live like they did, going through a succession of scummy motel rooms and apartments instead of staying in one place and being with other people. The resounding memories of his old life hadn't been the monsters they hunted, the demons and the late nights and the blood, so much blood spilled. Instead what Dean remembered the most was the feeling he got as a small child, playing alone outside those motel rooms while his dad researched inside.

Sam couldn't help his eyes skating across to the man walking next to him. Dean was lost in his own thoughts, probably digesting Sam's story. A slight smile had quirked the older mans lip at one point and Sam was curious to know what he was thinking about. But asking would be like opening himself up for another round of questioning and he couldn't allow that to happen. Not when he'd been so close to spilling everything just minutes ago.

A near-silent pad from across the street had Sam freezing in place, Dean reacting almost as rapidly. They shared a quick glance, hands reaching for the warm comfort of the concealed weapons pressed into waistbands, intimately close. Sam held his breath and scanned the street, swearing silently at the shadows that could easily hide a big black beast half the size of a car. He revolved slowly on the spot, subconsciously noting all the places a werewolf could be noiselessly waiting. For long seconds nothing moved except the breeze brushing through the topmost leaves of the big oaks and evergreen trees encompassing them. The sickly sweet scent of lavender drifted lazily through the gardens. Sam's senses were on high alert, his body outwardly still. Dean had shifted to cover his back, both men automatically synchronising their light breaths in order to hear anything approaching.

A cloud scudded across the face of the moon, halving their light. Sam used the trick he had been taught a long time ago by an old hunter his father had sent him to a few months after his eleventh birthday, alternately squinting and blinking in quick succession to try and adjust his eyesight to the new darkness. His hand tightened on the grip of the gun tucked beneath his clothes and he prepared to whip it out. If the werewolf was here, it would take advantage of the men's night blindness and attack suddenly before they could prepare themselves. Behind him, he felt more than heard Dean move back, decreasing the space between them to cover their blind spots on either side. Glancing to his left, Sam mentally cursed the pretentious gardener who had trimmed neat patterns and swirling curves into the big yew bushes surrounding his front lawn. The unusual shapes created strange shades across the grass, effectively concealing anything sneaking around beneath them. A whispered gasp of air stroked his face, sending involuntary shivers down the back of his neck.

After an eternity passed in a matter of seconds, Sam let himself relax minutely. The covering cloud drifted past the moon and some of the shadows lifted. When nothing moved after another half a minute, Sam took a deep steadying breath and let go of some of the tension in his taut muscles.

"I don't think it's here." He said softly, the words reverberating in the thick silence. Dean turned to him slowly, his hand still tight on his gun.

"Yeah, false alarm. Shit, my heart's pounding like I've just run a marathon." Sam grinned.

"Nothing like possible mortal danger to wake you up in the morning." Dean grinned back almost giddily, the dizzying rush of unused adrenaline making them both light-headed. Dean's ready grin caused a shiver of a different kind to prick the back of Sam's neck.

A scream punctured the warm air like shards of smashed glass, icy water on their relief. As one, Sam and Dean turned towards the sound. A second, then a third wracking scream followed, filling the silence with a desperate life. A quick glance at each other and both men took off at a sprint down the road, fresh screams echoing in their wake.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.) Thanks for all the nice reviews, they are always appreciated!

Chapter 5

The two men ran down the empty street, the sound of each footfall harsh as it made contact with the blacktop. Sam's long legs carried him further in front of Dean, the absurd elegance of a gazelle making him fly across the surface. Dean pushed himself to match the pace, thanking God or Allah or the vestige of John Winchester buried inside him that he'd kept up with his running at least. It would have been more than embarrassing to have to ask Sam to slow down so he could catch his breath.

Another scream cut the air, rushing through him and leaving a chill behind in his joints like an old man's rheumatism. They were pounding down streets in a blur, leaving them far behind before Dean could even try to place them from memory, cutting across roads and gardens and more empty roads. They passed people a few times, a young couple probably returning from a night out, looking in bewilderment over their shoulders in the direction of the screaming. They turned to face the men as they pelted past, their confused expressions a snapshot captured in Dean's mind and instantly forgotten as they flew past.

His ribs were burning, each bruised bone like a live wire wrapped around his chest. Dean ignored it, the punishment could catch up to him later. Breathing tightly, he focused on Sam's silhouette painted in black and white moonshadows in front of him. Like his car, the kid looked like he was built for fast movement. His coltish frame seemed weightless, as if he was being lifted forward by the air

The screams cut out. Sam continued running for a few seconds, but his steps faltered, like a greyhound that had lost the hare. He reached the end of the street and paused, his head twitching to look down the black road in front of him and then to its twin on his left. Finally he stopped as Dean slowed beside him. Frustration and fear fought clearly on his young face.

"Which way? I couldn't tell which direction the screams were coming from from back there. Goddamn it." He looked at Dean, unmasked desperation creasing his brows.

"I don't know." Dean wished he did, just to be able to take that look off Sam's face. He looked down both dark roads, as if by willpower alone he would be able to see the right one to take. "I don't know."

"Maybe we should take one each."

"Yeah, and have it kill one of us while the other is miles down the road running in the wrong direction. We stick together. Like _you_ said." Dean reminded him as Sam opened his mouth to argue. "Neither of us is in any condition to fight it alone."

"But someone is getting attacked, _killed, right now_."

"No, Sam."

A final scream, cut brutally short, echoed from the road on their left. Without a word they took off running again.

* * *

Sam pulled his gun from beneath his hoody as he rounded the final dark corner. He put the brakes on immediately and skidded ungracefully to a halt, his long limbs stopping him from overbalancing. He heard Dean's heavy footfalls coming to a stop next to him but didn't spare a glance towards the older man.

The scene before them was painted in bold black and white. A body lay crumpled and broken in the centre of the tableau; somehow the focus of attention despite the enormous black beast crouched over it. The wolf had its back to the two men and they took the unexpected opportunity to aim their weapons by the moonlight.

"Headshots" was all Sam had time to say to Dean before the thing was turning towards them, its bulky frame co-ordinated and somehow graceful. The light given off by a nearby streetlight caught its face and Sam could see the scarred and bloody snout, a reminder of his knife, still reassuringly cool against his skin. Its yellow eyes locked on to them and it seemed to grin.

Dean fired next to him. The wolf darted forward, the shot sailing clear above its head. Sam took his own shot but the burst of speed meant that he too was firing into empty space.

In two huge bounds, the wolf was on them. Dean threw himself to the side, barely escaping the snap of powerful jaws. He made it to the side of the street, putting the line of parked cars between him and it as a flimsy attempt at protection. The werewolf turned its attention back to Sam, who used the distraction to get behind it. He fired a shot into its hind leg at close range, the bullet burying itself deep into the muscle. The thing yelped in pain, spinning to try and bite at its own leg.

Sam took two hurried steps backwards, not wanting to risk looking away from the wolf to get his bearings in the street. He knew he should get to the other side of the road as Dean had done and try and divide its attention between the two of them. Dean, who was firing bullets in rapid succession at the increasingly maddened wolf. But even in agony the thing was still lightning quick and unusually smart for a werewolf. It wasn't allowing Dean any opportunity to bury a bullet in its skull.

Unfortunately, Dean's brilliant plan of 'distract the werewolf while Sam gets out of its way', whilst seeming like a stroke of genius seconds ago, had an unanticipated down side. The down side being that the wolf was now focused on him and he was on his last two bullets. He didn't think the wolf would be courteous enough to wait while he reloaded.

He stepped around a parked car, circling it to keep it between him and the werewolf. Of course the wolf didn't wait for him to trip up and make a mistake, choosing instead to forfeit the game by jumping on to of the car roof with a sickening thud and screech of tearing metal. Dean stilled, hard learned training telling him not to run back like instinct dictated. The wolf pounced, springing off the car like a gymnast would leap off a static beam. Dean threw himself sideways, his ribs giving an abused jolt. Scrambling against the side of the car, Dean made it back out onto the street before the wolf had time to swing its massive body around again.

Sam caught Dean's arm and dragged him back, slapping a new fully-loaded gun into his hand as he did. Dean fought the sudden and irrational urge to kiss the kid.

"Keep to the left. If we can distract it between us, one of us might get a clear shot." Sam said, stepping away from him.

The wolf came slinking around the parked car, snarling. The rumble of noise seemed to surround them both, locking the men in an airtight cocoon with the thing. Dean took a step away from Sam.

The wolf looked at them, its head swivelling from one to the other. Both men took a shot almost instantaneously, hitting it from either side. It howled, its furious gaze focusing on Sam. Dean shot at it again but this time it ignored him, barely flinching as the silver bullet hit its flank.

It had clearly learnt from its previous mistakes, taking its time, prowling forward instead of leaping wildly. Sam stepped back, still firing. One of the bullets lodged itself in the werewolf's lower jaw, the side of its face warping from the punch of pressure, but it didn't slow its approach.

Dean saw the danger a split second before it happened. Sam was fixated on the wolf in front of him, completely unaware of his surroundings. He took another step as the beast herded him back, the heel of his foot catching the splayed out body of the werewolf's victim lying in the street. Sam's eyes widened and he glanced down, losing his balance. The werewolf jumped.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

A/N – Thank you to all the people that have reviewed this story, I love hearing what you guys think of it ;) Keep 'em coming… And I know it's taken me ages to update, I'm very sorry, but in my defence I did decide at the last minute to completely change what happens next! Finally, some not-quite slash in this chapter…

Chapter 6

Dean watched Sam fall backwards, shock evident on his pale face. The wolf was reaching for him, would hit him as he hit the ground and that would be the end of Sam. He would be dead, or at the very least bitten, and Dean _couldn't _let it happen. He reacted instantly, bringing his gun up and firing three shots in quick succession. The first ripped a bloody gouge in the things neck, the second taking off its ear whilst the third and final shot clipped the side of the wolf's skull. Its eye bulged out, the bullet cutting through flesh like a hot knife through butter and exploding out of the top of its head, a spray of blood accompanying the deadly piece of silver. The wolf was knocked sideways by the power of the bullets, landing heavily in the street beside Sam. It gave a twitch, muscles rippling like waves under thick fur. Sam propelled himself backward, scrabbling crablike on his back away from the werewolf.

Everything was frozen for long seconds. Dean stood pointing the gun into the space the werewolf had been, his body shut down as his mind attempted to catch up. The events of the last few minutes played on repeat through his head in random orders and he tried failingly to make everything connect. The still form of the werewolf was on the ground and he couldn't tell if he'd ended its life or if it was playing possum.

Sam was sitting with wide eyes, his entire body rigid. Dean wanted to tell him to get up, to move, but his mouth didn't seem to want to break the dead silence following his gunshots.

In a snap-second, the wolf was on its feet again and Dean took two steps back in shock. He had been _trained_ for this, he was a hunter and he was good at it. But this wolf was stronger than any he'd encountered in the past. It seemed to be smarter, overriding the instincts that held the others like it to mindless violence and killing. It twisted its warped head in his direction and his gun arm automatically aimed. But before he could fire a shot, the wolf turned and ran, loping easily down the street into the thick black night.

Dean stepped forward but the wolf was gone. He looked over to Sam who was sprawled on the street, a dull expression of shock making his young features look even more child-like. He was staring at the young brunette woman whose dead and torn limbs had become entangled with his own. His face was covered in splatters of werewolf blood dotted like freckles, black on the white of his skin.

"Sam." Dean took unsteady steps toward him, one foot in front of the other, until he could crouch down and touch him. Dean's hand on Sam's shoulder made the younger man start and he turned away from the body long enough to face Dean.

"She's dead." He said, his voice featureless, almost a whisper. Dean held onto his shoulder, his grip tightening.

"Yeah." There was nothing else to say. Sam looked at him, eyes blank as if he was waiting for Dean to do something about it. "C'mon. Let's go back to the car." Dean felt sick, sitting in the blood of innocent victims. Sam still hadn't moved so Dean slid an arm around his waist and pulled him almost roughly to his feet. The arm and leg of the dead girl were dragged free of Sam and fell back to the black top with a meaty thud. Sam looked back down at her, her body facedown across the centre of the street. Her head was twisted to one side and one brown eye was open, gazing along the surface of the road in the direction the wolf had last been seen. Dean pulled Sam's uncooperative body closer to him, wrapping his arm more securely around his waist.

The darkness around them had begun to lighten, unnoticed by Dean. People would be getting up soon to enjoy their normal weekends in their normal lives. The black scene in front of him was suddenly a glowing chiaroscuro of red.

"Dean." Sam pulled his attention away from the body. The dots of blood on Sam's face had turned red as well. Dean wanted to wash them away. "Let's go." Dean turned them both, stumbling back up the street holding Sam as much for giving support as for his own comfort.

* * *

They had been too late. That girl, she was only young and now she was dead and the werewolf had gotten away, _again, _because Sam hadn't been good enough. He hadn't trained enough, hadn't listened to his instructors, to his father. He should have tried harder, been better.

Dean still had his arm around Sam's waist, keeping him upright and moving forward. To anyone watching, they must have looked like a pair of drunks coming home from an all-night bender. Sam was stumbling, his limbs lazy and exhausted now the danger was over. The sky was getting lighter behind them. His dad would be so angry that he wasn't back yet.

Hopefully Dean knew where the car was. Sam didn't have a clue. The streets they had run through manically just minutes before looked strange and different in the rising light. Sleep deprivation was making his head pound to an imaginary beat. He thought about resting it on Dean's shoulder to try and relieve some of the ache but that was a bad idea. He didn't need anyone, he could take care of himself like he always had. He didn't deserve help.

Dean had saved him. He had tripped up for the first time in years and he would have paid the price for his clumsiness and stupidity if Dean hadn't been there. He _should_ have paid the price. The girl was dead and he hadn't saved her or avenged her death. His head drifted down to rest against Dean's shoulder without his permission. Once it was there, he couldn't find the strength to move it. Dean didn't seem to mind though and he finally gave up trying and allowed himself this one weakness, cursing against it in his mind.

Somehow they were back in the street where his car was parked. He'd apparently lost track somewhere back in his thoughts. Dean guided him to the side, resting his sleepy body against the car. Sam blinked slowly up at the older man.

"Sam. Where are the keys?" Dean asked, commanding Sam's attention.

"I've got them. I'll drive." Sam tried to stand but Dean held him still, gently restraining him.

"Don't think you're quite with it there, kid. I'd hate to see your pretty car all scratched up. Don't worry, I'll look after it. Gimme the keys?" Dean smiled at him, humouring him like he was a small child. The smile didn't quite hide the shock in Dean's eyes. So Sam wasn't the only one blaming himself for not getting to the girl in time. Sam wanted to tell Dean it wasn't his fault, Sam was the one who was responsible. Instead he meekly handed the keys to the Mustang over without comment. He closed his eyes for a second and when he opened them again, he somehow found himself transported into the passenger seat. Dean was climbing into the driver's seat next to him. He looked over to Sam with a cocky grin, less shaky than the one before it.

"Been wanting to take your 'Stang for a ride all night. Just don't tell my Chevy, she'll get jealous." Sam snorted a little and gave a weak grin. He tried to say something back, getting as far as opening his mouth before his eyes closed of their own accord and everything faded away to black.

* * *

Sam opened his eyes again a few seconds later as the car smoothly stopped and the engine cut out. It was strange, he couldn't remember starting the car, and driving with his eyes closed was probably not one of his best ideas. Except he was in the passenger seat. No one ever sat in the passenger seat, mainly because Sam didn't know anyone to give lifts to. He looked over at Dean, his sore eyes watering slightly so the man in the driver's seat looked blurry and smudged.

"Hey kid, you're awake. We're here." Dean said in a voice usually used in churches and libraries.

"We're where?" Sam asked, sleep slurring his words into one.

"My apartment. Didn't know where yours was, I thought you could call your dad from here, tell him you're okay." Sam smiled blankly and looked at his hands twisting together in his lap. His dad wouldn't care if he was okay or not. The fact that he wasn't dead meant that he should be back by now. And he hadn't done the job he was supposed to do. His dad was going to be so angry. Dean didn't seem to notice Sam's lack of response. He was climbing out of the car, coming around to the passenger side to help Sam out. It was nice having someone to look after you, Sam thought abstractly. Before Dean could reach the door Sam opened it and got himself out, holding the roof of the Mustang to help him regain his shaky equilibrium. Dean pulled up short, confusion written on his face.

"I was gonna help you with that." He said.

"Don't need it. I'm fine." Dean held up him hands in a surrender at Sam's blunt tone.

"Okay, okay, I wasn't implying you couldn't do it yourself. Come on then. Let's go in." Dean turned and walked across the street to his apartment building, leaving Sam standing by the car. _I should go back to dad_. His eyes drifted closed again and he blinked hard to keep himself awake. Dean was watching him from the open door of his apartment, making no move to come and help him. Sam walked unsteadily toward him, his father haunting his thoughts.

The kid was clearly exhausted. Dean could read it in every tense muscle and shaky movement. _Why_ he wouldn't just accept Dean's help he didn't know, but watching him stumble and catch himself on the doorframe of Dean's apartment, Dean's arms twitched to reach out and catch him. Sam was obviously blaming himself for the girl's death. Dean wanted to sit him down and talk to him, tell him there was no way a sixteen year old kid could be responsible in any way for what had happened. Without Sam, the wolf would be running around free to do whatever it wanted. _It's not like_ I_ would've done anything about it on my own_. Dean winced at the brutal honesty of his thoughts. He wanted to tell Sam to stop blaming himself. But he really _really_ disliked having talks about his _feelings_. And he doubted Sam would let himself hear it anyway. The kid was determined to take it to heart.

Dean made himself step inside and walk to the living area, resisting the urge to check on Sam behind him. He flicked the light switch on and took a cursory glance around the room. It was all how he left it, cluttered and untidy. The dirty plate he'd eaten breakfast off of was still on the coffee table, balanced on top of the pile of magazines. The beer stain on the sofa cushion from last weeks' football game was still there. Everything was the same and somehow he felt out of place, uncomfortable in the environment he'd created for himself a few years back and lived 'contentedly' in ever since. Maybe the events of the night had made him a _changed man_. He resisted the childish urge to giggle at the thought. Okay, so maybe he wasn't that changed. He turned to Sam who was propped up against a wall and looking at him with his head cocked to one side, pretty eyes as wide at the kid could make them. Dean swore he was doing it on purpose. His face was still spattered with red dots of blood, which ruined the effect somewhat. Dean desperately wanted that blood gone.

"Come on, kid, let's get you cleaned up. You wanna call your dad?" Dean asked.

"It's okay, I think my batteries are dead. I'll do it later." Sam said, flashing a cell phone in the palm of his hand briefly before making it disappear again.

"Here, use mine." Dean tossed his own cell phone to Sam, who caught it one handed and stared at it blankly for long seconds like he didn't know what it was. He looked up at Dean again and smiled briefly.

"Thanks. I'll do it later though, can't remember the number." The reply was delivered smoothly, Sam calmly handing the phone back to Dean as he talked. Dean decided not to call him on his lie.

"Okay. Well let's get that stuff cleaned off your face then." Sam reached a hand up tentatively to his face. Apparently he hadn't realised he had a face covered in spots of dried blood. Dean guided him gently into the bedroom, propelling him forward. He could feel solid muscle under the worn-soft material of the hoody Sam wore. Sam was suddenly acquiescent, silently allowing himself to be moved like a puppet. Maybe he felt bad for the lie.

Dean led him into the en-suite bathroom, wincing a little at his earlier mess. His shirt was still on the floor in front of the shower, one arm coated in dried brown blood. The sink had rusty streaks of blood across the basin. Sam seemed to like things neat and in their place. Dean couldn't imagine Sam leaving dirty dishes in the sink for months on end.

Sam glanced briefly in the mirror above the sink as Dean guided him past, obviously wanting to see what kind of mess he'd been walking around with on his face. He compliantly sat on the toilet seat Dean steered him to, looking up with sleepy eyes.

"Anything hurt? You fell pretty hard back there." Dean asked, feeling each of his own ribs protest to the movement breathing caused.

"'M fine. Had worse." Sam seemed to be struggling to stay awake again.

"I bet." Dean turned to the sink once he was sure Sam wasn't going to fall asleep and fall off the toilet seat. He ran the water until it was warm and soaked a washcloth under it, wringing out the excess water. Turning to Sam again, he saw the kid wilting on the toilet seat, catching himself at the last moment and forcefully pushing himself upright again.

Dean intended on handing the damp cloth to Sam to clean his face, he really did. Except somehow he found himself on his knees in front of the kid. Sam looked down at him in dull confusion and Dean smiled slightly, hoping he looked reassuring. The smile faded as his hand came up without his permission, wavering slightly, to wipe the cloth over Sam's cheekbone. Sam's eyes drifted silently shut and he lifted his face minutely to allow Dean easier access. Dean's other hand reached out to brush the bangs of hair covering Sam's forehead out of the way gently as the cloth was traced across his features. Dean frowned faintly in concentration as he followed the bridge of Sam's nose down to his other cheekbone, using feather-light strokes to clean the blood off the bruise that remained around that eye. He wanted to ask how it had really happened, but he stayed silent. It could wait. His head tilted to one side, focused on meticulously wiping away every spot of blood that tainted Sam's skin. The washcloth trailed across his mouth and chin, leaving glistening wetness behind that caught the light. When Dean was finished, Sam's entire face looked dewy and glowing fresh and incredibly young. Dean leaned back on his heels and stared for a second, captivated.

It occurred to Dean suddenly that Sam was sixteen years old, and a _student_ of his, and this whole situation could lead to him losing his job. Not to mention getting arrested. It startled him out of his wonderlike daze like a splash of cold water and brought him to his feet abruptly, Sam's eyes flashing open at the rush of movement. He looked up at Dean with his insanely big eyes and Dean had to look away, his face stained red with a furious blush. _Shit, what am I doing?_

"All done. I'll…wait outside if you wanna, you know, get cleaned up." Dean said redundantly, avoiding Sam's questioning look. He turned and practically ran from the bathroom, closing the door behind him. His hand twisted in his hair as he let out a breath sharply. Yeah, the great Dean Winchester, seducer of anything with a pulse, scared out of his own bathroom by an exhausted sixteen year old boy. He fell backwards onto his bed, his hands coming up to rub over his face. It was just lack of sleep. He'd wait for Sam to come out, act like nothing weird had just occurred and it would all be fine. Take the kid home before he collapsed from exhaustion, get some gas and go and find his Impala, drive to the nearest Starbucks for free-trade coffee and something laden with sugar and frosting and calories, then come home and sleep for the rest of the weekend. He wouldn't see Sam until Monday, and by then everything would be back to normal in the life of Dean Winchester. He wouldn't be _caressing his students in his bathroom_. He just needed a minute to collect himself. When Sam came out he would be his usual charming-but-distanced self.

Dean meant to sit up, go to the living room, find something to occupy himself waiting for Sam because he was _absolutely_ fine and he hadn't done _anything _wrong. Instead he fell asleep.

* * *

Sam sat on the toilet seat, staring hard at the closed door. What exactly had just happened? His mind whirred, nothing falling into place like it should. Maybe he'd imagined it. But his face was damp, the washcloth lying discarded on the floor in front of him next to the remains of Dean's shirt. He raised a slightly shaky hand to his face, tracing phantom touches. No one had ever touched him like that, like he was something precious and fragile. He hoped it hadn't been something his confused mind had made up.

When he was younger it used to happen a lot. He would be seated across from his dad after a bad hunt. Sam would be tired, bleeding, _aching_ in every way. And his mind would start to drift, hypnotised by the movement of the car, the lights flashing past by the side of the road outside. He would daydream vividly that his mom was still alive, that they were driving home to her after a hard day of father-son bonding, maybe watching a football game together or meeting his dad's friends, where his father would have clapped him on the shoulder and said "This is my boy, takes after his mother." Or maybe he would think about a different life, his mother dead and his father working hard to make ends meet so Sam could still have the best things in life. They were driving home to their small two bedroom apartment after Sam's school basketball game, his dad had taken the afternoon off work to come and watch him play. But Sam had never played basketball. He'd seen other people playing it though, thought it looked like fun. Once he'd dreamt about a nice couple who had owned a Bed and Breakfast he and his dad had stayed at. He'd imagined he was their son, and they were driving home to the B and B after buying paint and wallpaper. At the weekend they were going to fix up Room 5, his mom directing from the side as his dad hung wallpaper and Sam painted skirting boards. His dad would flick wallpaper paste at his mom, and she would laugh and hide behind Sam.

He would believe so hard in these fantasies that when the car stopped moving and he saw the motel out of the windscreen, he'd be shocked and a little scared. And then his father would look over at him, his face ugly in disgust, and Sam would hurt deep inside, the way he imagined it would have felt to be able to remember his mom dying.

But Dean was real. Soft touches that he hadn't imagined, that he couldn't have imagined because he never knew what they felt like until today. He stood unsteadily, holding on to the sink with one hand. The washcloth lay in a puddle at his feet and he picked it up, staring at the pinkish wet blotches soaking through the material. He closed his eyes. His dad was waiting. He turned on the water in the sink, carefully washing the cloth until every trace of blood was gone.

He walked out to the bedroom, supporting himself on the doorframe as his lethargic mind tried to coordinate his actions. Dean was lying on his back on the bed, one arm thrown over his head, the other hand resting on his stomach. His eyes were closed and he was snoring a little, his mouth hung open. He looked better than any of Sam's most powerful day dreams. The space on the double bed beside Dean looked like the safest place in the world, a temptation stronger than 'normal' or 'mom and dad' or 'home'. Dean snorted in his sleep, making Sam smile from where he stood across the room.

Light from outside crowded the hall and lit up the exit to the room. Sam took a last look at Dean and his 'normal' before leaving. His father was waiting.

* * *

Dean was woken by the midday sun floating through his open bedroom door and hitting him squarely in the face. He blinked grainy eyes, waiting for the heavy weight of morning-after alcohol to scratch at his brain and trying to recall the night before. He couldn't remember going out drinking. _Sam_. He sat up suddenly. The werewolf, the girl, and _Sam_. Where was the kid? It was late, surely he hadn't fallen asleep in the bathroom?

"Sam? You here?"He got up and checked the bathroom. His shirt was gone from the floor, the washcloth folded and left to dry beside the tap on the sink. The bloodstains had been washed away like they were never there. _Fucking kid, I knew he was a neat freak_.

Walking into the living area, Dean was stopped dead, a hoarse bark of laughter grated on his dry throat before he could stop it escaping. His kitchen sink, which had previously been piled high with dirty dishes, cups and cutlery was now empty and shining clean. The surfaces had all been wiped down, and even his greasy hob with its minefield of year old bacon fat stains and splattered cooking oil had been polished until it was spotless and sparkling. A note rested on his now-clean countertop, written in neat and careful handwriting.

_Sorry I couldn't stick around, I had to get home and I didn't want to wake you up. Thanks for coming with me last night, and sorry I put you to so much trouble. I'll see you in school. Sam._

Dean sat at the counter, re-reading the note. He caught himself grinning like a boy with a love letter and quickly scrunched the paper in his hand, hiding the words.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

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Chapter 7

Sam was on the floor, his body seized up. Jim Miller, his face puffed and crimson and lined deeply with madness, pistoned his leg two, three times into Sam's tender stomach. Whuffs of air escaped his mouth but no sound. He gave up on trying to appeal to his father a long time ago. His body curled back with the force of the kicks, sliding along the ground. His back hit the leg of the coffee table in the centre of the apartment floor, the angle catching painfully on his spine. The heel of a boot came down on the side of Sam's head and his brain rattled in its skull. His ears rang. He chanced a look up at his father. It was strange, Sam thought distantly, how the only time his father's dead eyes ever came to life was when he was beating his only son. Words were washing over him and his head tuned in to them like a radio, crackling with static interruptions.

"…You show up _hours_ late and you don't even do the job you're here for! What the fuck am I 'sposed to do now, huh? There's another lead waiting for me in Iowa right now, and it ain't gonna wait around until you're good and ready, princess!"

"You-you could go. I'll stay…take care of this." Sam managed to gasp out.

"You fucking well better. 'Cause there's nothing else in this life for shits like you. You'll do your time until you're broken and then I'll put you to sleep like the little bitch you are, but until then you're mine and you do what I say. You don't deserve no better…" A harsh blow to Sam's chest to accentuate the point lifted his body from the ground momentarily, returning with a jarring thud. His head rang. A booted heel to his outstretched hand, grinding down, and Sam felt the bones in his knuckles scrape against each other. Just as the fiery pain was becoming too much for Sam to endure in silence, his father removed his foot and took a step away. "You got until the next full moon, boy. You don't finish this and I promise you, I won't be as patient and understanding."

Sam was left writhing on the floor, spots of black dancing brightly in his eyesight. He could hear through the buzzing in his ears the sounds of Jim roughly packing his bag. Minutes passed indeterminately and Sam was still trying to catch his lost breaths when black steel-toed boots filled his vision again. He tried not to flinch at the sight, tried to relax his body in case his father felt the need to take out more of his aggressions. But Jim Miller only stood for a second before gruffly coughing and walking out. The door of the apartment slammed in his wake and it was the best noise Sam could imagine hearing.

After his father left, Sam crawled to the sofa, rolling onto it with a pained whimper that he only allowed himself when there was no one around to hear it. He was _so tired_, but the spasms of bruised bones and sore points wouldn't let him sleep. At least his father had left his face untouched this time. Bruises on his body could be hidden, but a second black eye and people would start to ask uncomfortable questions. Even Dean, who had hopefully taken the bruise to be a hunting-related accident.

The springs of the sofa poked him uncomfortably and Sam tried to shift, to find a better position that didn't rest so heavily on his battered body. He turned and turned again, wincing as new aches built up, the pressure of just laying down aggravating to his injuries. Tears of frustration leaked out of his eyes and he scrubbed them away harshly with the balled fist of his bruise-darkened hand, relishing the pain like gravel scratching at his clenched grip. He deserved this, all of this. He hadn't _done his job_, the girl had died and the werewolf had gotten away. So what if he couldn't sleep, if his joints and bones felt thick as cement and all the blood in his veins was carefully painting his skin black and blue? This was his punishment, his _penance_,and he should suffer it like a man. Tears were useless.

* * *

For the first night in what seemed like forever, Dean didn't feel like going out. It was a Saturday night and he didn't want to get blind drunk and pick up some heavily made-up girl with a too-short skirt and open legs for an unsatisfying fumble back at hers. He didn't feel like staying in and drinking either. It was something of a novelty to him. He felt like he'd reached a turning point in his life, or a crossroads, or some kind of metaphorical road.

Instead he sat in his apartment and watched old reruns of The Simpsons, eating a family bag of Cheetos and wiping cheese dust all over his freshly washed jeans. He'd felt oddly scared of messing up his almost-obsessively cleaned kitchen, washing up each glass and plate as he used it as if the dirt Nazis would descend upon him. Dean wondered how Sam had actually managed to clean the entire kitchen so quickly and efficiently, and all without waking him up. The kid was too cute for his own good.

At least neither of them had to worry about the werewolf for another month or so. Dean made a mental note to check the lunar cycle and find out when the next full moon would be. _This time_, he promised himself, _I won't just bury my head in the sand. This time I'll help, because I can_. Strangely, the acknowledgement of his past, of hunting and that other life he'd once had didn't hurt like he feared it would. It didn't bring his world crashing down on top of him. Instead he felt lighter in some way, _relieved?_ Maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to keep up the constant façade that had been steadily growing weightier with each pretence built around it.

Dean grinned to himself and stuffed a handful of Cheetos in his mouth.

* * *

The shower was spasmodically dribbling warm water. The water pressure was practically nonexistent, and Sam thought of a big bath tub filled with hot water with a desperate longing. It would do wonders for his wounded body, soothing away the aches like a gentle massage. Unfortunately he had to make do with the limescale encrusted shower and its aroma of heated mould stinking like a greenhouse. The shower doors didn't close properly and the shower head was broken, spiking out of the wall at just the right angle for Sam to hit his head every time he stepped in.

He'd slept fitfully through the night, tossing and turning as much as he could without disturbing too many of his injuries. More than once he considered trying to sleep on his fathers bed, but even with his father gone it was worth more than his life to risk it. If Jim had come back unexpectedly and found Sam in his bed, Sam would have been sleeping on the front doorstep in his underwear. So he suffered the sofa and the cold.

Washing himself as best he could, he stepped out of the shower and took a look at his torso in the mirror. Black patterns decorated his stomach like he'd been tattooed, focused around his kidney area. A streak of purple on his back highlighted the table leg he'd hit. Sam looked over himself with clinical detachment, as if he was looking at a photograph of someone else, someone he didn't know. The worst of the bruising was on his left hand however, the knuckles swollen and spiking electric-white pain when Sam attempted to move the fingers. It was possible his father had fractured or even broken bones. He used his other hand to feel tenderly along each length of fragile bone, pressing gently to search for any breaks. Luckily it seemed as if he'd gotten away with heavy bruising. Businesslike, he walked into the living area and picked up his duffel of clothing and travel things, searching for the small but extensively stocked first aid kit he carried with him always. From a young age he'd learnt to be adept at putting himself back together again.

* * *

The drive into school was never something that Dean relished, mostly because it meant he was resigning himself to another day of sitting in front of a group of young people, listening to them bitch and chatter and pull each others' pigtails. The Impala, freshly gassed up and purring like a contented lioness glided smoothly into Dean's usual spot. Right on queue the crowd of giggling girls appeared, all wearing bright pink sparkly lip gloss that had obviously been passed around the group minutes before in preparation. They stood blatantly staring as Dean hauled himself and his bag out of the car, trying to do up his top shirt buttons and straighten his tie one-handed. He gave them a wide white smile as he strode past, hearing the gasps and exclamations as he rounded the corner of the building. Mentally congratulating himself on his undisputed hotness, he glanced over at the student parking lot and stuttered to a halt. The cherry red Mustang sat calmly under the shade of several trees in the best parking space in the lot. Dean felt suddenly flustered and too warm.

Sam was ridiculously nervous about going to school again. He hadn't planned on being there on Monday morning, had expected to be done with the werewolf and moving on to the next place, the next job. Instead he was still in Elmstead, still at the same school. He berated himself on his unwillingness, not least because this was the very thing he'd been wanting for so long, to be normal, to attend school and make friends and actually have time to learn things that don't involve his knives or guns or fists.

And Dean was here. Flushing at the stupid crush that had sprung up, Sam felt simultaneously excited and anxious about seeing the older man again. Would Dean want to talk about what happened on Friday? Would he want to help Sam hunt the werewolf? Or would he just ignore the kid that had happened to be around at the same time and in the same place as Dean Winchester? _Probably the latter_.Sam looked at the ground as he trudged toward the school building. _It's not like it _meant_ anything to him. He's a teacher, you're just one of many students he sees_.

"Sam!" Sam turned at the feminine voice calling his name, his heart flying up into his throat. For a second he had heard Dean's voice, had wanted it to be Dean so badly. Jessica came running up to him, blonde hair loose and waving behind her like a pennant flag. She was smiling, happy to see him, and he envied her pure unbroken innocence. "How are you?" She said, slightly out of breath from her quick sprint to meet him.

"Jessica, hey. I'm…good thanks, how are you? Did you have a good weekend?" Her open smile was infectious and Sam felt himself smiling back.

"I did. Look, I wanted to say, I'm really sorry about, you know, what happened." Her cheeks flushed prettily pink and she tucked her hair behind one ear with an embarrassed smile. "When I asked you out, I mean. I didn't mean to sound pushy."

"Oh, no, please don't apologise Jess. I would've said yes. Honestly, I wanted to, it's just that…my dad, he moves around a lot like I said, and I didn't want to get too attached here in case we have to leave again. I wouldn't want to do that to you. I hope you understand?" Sam put on his best imploring and earnest face. "I'd really like to be friends though."

"Of course we can be friends." She looked relieved, as if it had been troubling her and Sam instantly felt conflicting emotions of guilt and affection. "Come on, I'll walk you to your locker." She linked her arm with his and led him into the building. He grinned at her, feeling suddenly glad to be there.

Even from a distance Dean could tell it was Sam. The lanky figure and baggy jeans were unmistakable and Dean wondered when he'd gotten to recognise the clothing the kid wore on sight when he could barely remember the names of students who'd been in his form for the last five years. Sam was talking and smiling with the same pretty blonde Dean had seen him with last week.

As Dean walked up behind the two, entering the school building, Sam glanced behind him and before Dean knew what he was doing he'd ducked behind the wide doors, out of Sam's line of sight. He stood there for a second, heart racing and eyes crushed closed, wondering what the hell was wrong with him. What did he think Sam would do, announce to everyone in the corridor that his teacher had taken him home and felt up his face in the bathroom? The kid wasn't the type to use it to his own advantage. Dean hoped.

He waited a moment longer until he was sure Sam was gone and stepped out from behind the door, ignoring the startled looks of the students passing. He straightened his tie and took a deep breath, deliberately not looking at anyone as he began the walk that would take him to the staff room. He needed coffee, desperately.

* * *

The damage his father had done to Sam two nights previous was especially irritating now he was in school. The strip of bruising along his back was tender, and the standard plastic chairs he was expected to sit in for hours on end did nothing to cushion it. He wore a long sleeve blue tee shirt under his hoody, even though the colouration on his arms wasn't very noticeable. He'd always found it better to take precautions rather than regret it later. But the double layers had him hot and sweating in the summer heat, the back of his neck itching uncomfortably. His bad hand was bandaged and he tried to keep it in his pocket as much as possible to prevent anyone noticing. _At least it wasn't your writing hand_. He thought, huffing to himself. Small consolation.

He was actually enjoying being at school, despite the discomfort it caused him. After their talk, Jessica had treated him like an old friend, someone she was genuinely glad to be with. He followed her from class to class, feeling vaguely like a bemused puppy as she was greeted and returned greetings from all sides while he trotted along beside her, listening to her chatting about everything under the sun. He found himself chatting back, laughing and joking and feeling at ease. _It was nice_, he decided, _having friends_. He would be sorry when he had to leave.

"Sam, c'mon, we have Mr Winchester's class next." Jess dragged him out of his daze. His stomach knotted and he felt his face get hot. Mr Winchester. Not Dean now, not here. Sam had been hoping to see him before class, objectively to ask him whether he wanted to help Sam try and track down the werewolf before the next full moon. The probability was that whoever it was didn't realise what was happening. They blacked out a few nights in a row, then everything reverted to normal again and they went on, blissfully unaware. Sam had a few contacts, or rather his father had contacts, who might be able to help, especially as the attacks had only started a few months ago. _Yes, the werewolf, that's why you want to see Dean, to spend hours and hours researching in his company_. Sam ignored the traitorous voice in the back of his head and followed Jess down the hallway.

The last class before lunch and it was the class Dean had been alternately looking forward to and dreading all day. Sam would be here any minute. He sat behind his desk, smiling fleetingly at the students straggling in and slumping in chairs. They all had the same glazed look of people who really couldn't care less about what he might have to say to them. He reached a hand up to scratch at the back of his neck, taking darting glances between the open door and the clock at the back of his class room.

When Sam did walk in, looking every bit as apprehensive as Dean felt, Dean made sure his face was perfectly arranged in a blank expression. He gave a perfunctory look in the direction of Sam and his blonde friend and then turned to the front of the class, standing.

"Okay people, now we're all here, guess what? Pop quiz!"

* * *

Sam hadn't known exactly what to expect when he saw Dean-_Mr Winchester_-again, but to be treated with complete indifference hadn't been it. It had thrown him, to say the least, and he'd nearly walked into the desk in front of the door.

The chorus of groans that had met the announcement of a pop quiz had covered the stifled yelp Sam produced when his pocketed hand was jolted in the minor collision. Jess looked at him in concern as his face screwed in sharp pricks of pain, but he quickly straightened his features. "Are we gonna sit?"

"Uh, sure. Are you okay, you looked like you hurt yourself then?"

"I'm fine. Just nearly walked into the desk." Sam ducked his head and affected an embarrassed smile. "I'm such a clutz."

Jess smiled apprehensively back at him but didn't question further, leading them to two side by side desks next to the windows. Sam sat, letting his bag fall from his arm and pulling his still-spasming hand from his pocket when he could hide it under the wooden desk top. He let it fall limply in his lap, willing the prickles to calm and stop playing up and down his nerves.

Dean was walking up and down the rows of desks in the class room, handing out sheets of questions and blank paper. He passed Sam, placing the sheets on his desk without pausing or looking down. Sam stared down at the paper in front of him with unfocused eyes, trying not to feel hurt that Dean apparently didn't want anything to do with him now.

Throughout the lesson, Sam couldn't help but look up at the teacher's desk at semi-regular intervals. Dean didn't seem to notice him looking, in fact didn't seem to notice him at all, passing over him without recognition. He still took peeks, hoping in vain that Dean might give him _some_ sign, something. Anything.

He was being stupid, he told himself again and again. Just because they happened to have run into each other, and they both happened to have experience hunting the supernatural, it didn't mean anything. It wasn't like Dean had any obligation to him now, in fact the older man had gone above and beyond what Sam had asked when he'd accompanied Sam on the hunt.

Jessica's soft swear as she scribbled something out next to him brought Sam back to the present and he realised that he was supposed to actually be _answering_ the questions to the pop quiz in front of him. Scrawling his name across the top of his page in untidy handwriting nothing like his usual neat script, he wrote brief answers to all the questions, half his mind still playing on Dean.

Sam was writing still, looking in intense concentration at the paper in front of him. Dean hadn't allowed himself to spend any more time watching Sam than he spent looking over the rest of his class. For one thing, if any of the girls staring so obviously at him caught their teacher looking at Sam any more than usual, then it would lead to playground gossip that he could really do without. And after the other night, _stroking _Sam's _face_, god knows what the kid must think of him.

But now that Sam was here, Dean had to fight the urge to ask him to step outside for a chat. He wanted to ask if the kid was okay, what he was going to do about the werewolf now, what Dean could do to help.

The scratching of pens on paper was annoying. He sat back in his leather backed office chair, resisting the desire to spin himself around with his feet. A large stack of unmarked pop quizzes from previous classes sat on Dean's desk. He considered actually marking them for once, then vetoed the idea immediately. No matter how bored he was, anything was better than marking unnecessary work.

The bell for lunch rang, Dean sighing in relief at the end of the hour. Students erupted in a fury of noise, scraping back chairs and exclaiming in loud voices as they packed away their things and gathered their bags and jackets. Dean stood, fighting to make himself heard over the din.

"Papers on my desk please, one pile of questions, one pile of answers! And Sam Miller, can I have a word?" Sam's head flew up. The bruising around his eye had gone down a lot over the weekend, now no more than a dirty smudge making him look as if he hadn't gotten enough sleep. He looked startled that Dean had called his name, and Dean wondered if maybe Sam hadn't wanted to be seen talking to a teacher during school. Oh well, nothing could be done about it now.

The classroom emptied itself, Sam standing by his desk waiting for him with a look of mild confusion on his features, one hand in his hoody pocket. The blonde girl he was always seen with stood just inside the door, looking uncertainly at Sam. Dean turned to her, shepherding her toward the door. "He'll be right out."

"It's okay Jess, I'll catch up with you." Sam said.

"Okay Sam. I'll, uh…wait for you in the cafeteria." She turned around and walked out the door. Dean closed it behind her.

"Uh, sir?" Sam said tentatively.

"Sam. I just wanted to…" _Why is this uncomfortable?_ Dean remembered the easy rapport they'd had the other night. Before the teacher thing had become the main issue again, before he'd become _sir_ again. "I wanted to make sure everything was okay. After, uh, what happened. On Friday."

Sam had a small smile on his face, breathing out a tiny whuff of air. "Yeah. My dad left me here to try and track it down while he's off chasing another lead in Iowa."

"He wasn't pissed that you didn't get it?"

"Well he wasn't happy about it." Sam looked down. "But there wasn't really much he could do. I'm gonna phone some people I know, see if I can't try and work out who it might be before the next full moon."

"Okay, well look, if you need any help just give me a call and I'll be there."

"You…you wanna help?" Sam sounded like he didn't quite believe it.

"Well, yeah. I want to get this thing, before it hurts anyone else." Dean reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out his cell phone. "Here, if you take my number then you can call me if you need me."

Sam blinked at him a few times then pulled out his own phone, taking down Dean's number. "Uh, thanks. I might need your help, it's gonna be pretty much impossible to find this guy even if there's two of us. But I gotta try at least."

"Don't worry kid. You'll get it. _We'll_ get it." Dean tried a reassuring smile.

"Yeah, I hope so. Thanks, sir." Sam stepped to the door, reaching out and opening it with the hand still holding his phone. He turned and smiled at Dean, slow and happy, before disappearing from view.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

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Thank you all again for your lovely reviews, I know I haven't gotten around to answering them (_so _much stuff I'm supposed to be doing right now, it's crazy) but I promise I will eventually…Here's another chapter instead, hope you guys like…

Chapter 8

Sam waited three whole days before giving in to the gnawing urge to call Dean.

He'd called up some of the contacts from his father's list, hoping for any help he could get. Sam had lucked out on the third call. Stephen Layson had been one of the few hunters Sam had met that actually treated him like a human being rather than his father's mangy pet dog. He'd been left with the old man a few times in his childhood, learning the basics on handling different types of gun. Stephen had been patient with him, correcting him calmly when he made a mistake and explaining in simple terms how to aim to kill on every shot. Sam remembered being allowed a bowl of ice cream every night after dinner if he'd done well, sitting next to the grey haired man whilst he watched Jeopardy in the evenings. The last time Sam had seen him had been a few months after Stephen had the lower half of his left leg torn off dealing with a Tannin, a rare serpent-like demon that had somehow found its way into the sewer system in New York. Now the older man spent his compulsory retirement using his well-honed computer hacking skills to help other hunters.

Sam had phoned Stephen and the other man had been prompt getting back to him, emailing a long list of names and previous addresses for new residents to Elmstead. Sam had been expecting to have to do most of the weeding out himself, but Stephen had managed to narrow the list down to those people that had moved in between the last full moon without any attacks and the first full moon the wolf had started work. Now Sam had around eighty names to start with, and he thanked God that Elmstead wasn't a bigger town.

He sat in his dank little apartment eating cold spagettios out of the can and reading through the list. Before Sam had even gotten halfway through he let out a violent sigh and pushed the paper away, wincing as he forgot momentarily about his bad hand.

It would be impossible to investigate all the people on the list in time, even if he did call Dean. Looking at his silent cell phone resting innocuously next to the half-empty tin, he sighed again.

Sam hadn't had a chance to talk with Dean since Monday. He'd hoped to be able to catch him after one of his classes, but Jessica would have thought it was strange if he went to find Dean during lunch hour and the older man didn't seem to enjoy waiting around after school, the Impala gone from its space in the parking lot practically on the ring of the final bell.

He stared at the phone, not quite daring to actually pick it up, as if his touch would make the call before he was properly prepared for it. _Stop being so ridiculous_, Sam told himself mentally, _if he didn't _want _you to call him, he wouldn't have given you his number and told you to do it, would he?_ Angry at himself and embarrassed at how wound up he was over making a phone call, Sam snatched the cell phone up with his good hand before he could change his mind. Flicking through the address book, he came to Dean's name. He'd considered putting it under 'Mr Winchester' for a second as he was taking it, it felt disrespectful to use a teacher's first name while in school, even on his cell phone. But Dean would have told him not to be so stupid. His thumb twitched on the green call button, the dialling icon flashing up on the screen and Sam panicked a little. Maybe Dean wouldn't pick up, maybe he had his cell phone switched off…

"Hello?" Dean's voice, tinny and distorted came through the speaker and Sam hurriedly brought the phone to his ear.

"Hi, uh, sir." Sam winced. He could probably call him Dean on the phone. "It's Sam. Uh, you said you wanted to help with hunting the werewolf?"

"Sure, what have you got?"

* * *

They met in Elmstead Town Library, a big old grey slab building near the town centre. Outside the building looked huge and forbidding, the drab colour making it seem fortress-like and indestructible. Inside, the smell of stale books and static that comes with libraries had a somewhat comforting tone to it, as if the imprint of knowledge had been soaked into the atmosphere. That afternoon the library was practically empty, the rush of students doing research after school gone home for their dinners and the straggles of people trying to return books before the building closed for the night not expected for another hour.

The last time Dean had been in a library was longer ago than he cared to remember. He was actually rather intrigued by the Elmstead library, having driven past it more times than he could count on his way to and from school. The novelty value soon wore off when he stepped inside. He'd suggested meeting there to Sam, thinking it would at least make him sound fairly amenable to research. Dean wanted to help with the werewolf, he really did, but he'd always preferred the actual hunting part to the part that was like studying for a history exam.

Sam was currently sitting in front of him at the four-seater wooden table they'd found buried inside the library stacks holding a list of names and addresses several times longer than his arm.

"Well, the werewolf attacks started suddenly three full moons back, right? So it could be someone new to the area, doesn't realise what's going on, what they are. I got my dad's friend Stephen to get me a list of names of all the people who moved in to the town in that time frame. I thought we could go through them, look into their backgrounds, see if there were any weird attacks where they used to live." Sam said, pushing the list across the table to Dean with one hand. "I know it's a long shot, but it's all I can think to do."

"What about if it's not someone who moved in recently? What if it's someone who just got bitten recently?" Dean asked.

Sam sighed. "I know, but we can't go looking into people who may or may not have bite marks on their bodies. We might as well go knocking door to door through the whole town. This way at least we can try and rule out some of these people."

Dean took the list, looking down it for a minute. "Well, we can rule out half of these people right now."

Sam looked at him, brows furrowed. "What? Why?"

"It's a guy werewolf, which I'd imagine means it's a guy _guy_. Unless women grow a pair if they become a werewolf?" Dean cocked his head, squinting at the image the thought produced.

"Not that I've looked into the matter in detail, but it's not one of the defining traits of werewolves." Sam said sarcastically, screwing up his nose and kicking back in his chair. "How'd you know it's a guy?"

"Dude, the thing was sitting on my chest last Friday. It practically had its balls up my nose."

"Wow, thanks for the picture." Sam looked disgusted. Dean's lip quirked in a half-smirk. Sam was more relaxed outside school, like he'd been the night they'd hunted the werewolf together. Dean liked seeing it.

"Yeah, well you weren't the one who had to _live_ it."

* * *

"So there's no other way of finding this guy, apart from going down the list of names?" Dean asked as he held the door open for Sam. They stepped outside, the hot air and sunshine sliding over their faces.

"Not that I can see." Sam replied, holding up the list in one hand. Dean leaned in to look at the names that meant absolutely nothing to him. "There's nothing else to identify him with."

"Well how about wounds? I mean, we must've shot the wolf a dozen times on Friday at least. I took the goddamn things ear off. That's gotta leave a mark."

"No, after the full moon goes down, a werewolf sheds its skin, becoming human again, like the man sheds to turn into a werewolf as the moon rises. Any surface wounds, even major ones, fall off with the skin." Sam crumpled the list slightly in his hand. He turned to the street in front of them, surveying the people walking in the sunlight. "You shot the ear off the wolf, not the person. We could be looking at them right now and we wouldn't have a clue. And neither would they."

Dean looked at Sam, frowning. Sam was right, smart bastard of a kid. It made him feel slightly off-balance, being taught things by his student. Especially things his father had tried repeatedly to drill into him. Unfortunately, the memorising of facts hadn't been something Dean had put any effort into before going off to college. He'd never thought he would need it, what with his father being right there constantly.

Sam started walking down the steps fronting the library building. Dean followed in silence. They walked side by side along the street, not talking, not looking at each other, both with hands in their pockets. The Impala was parked across the street and from where Dean was standing, he could see Sam's Mustang glinting bloody in the sun at the end of the road.

"Well, kid, this is my ride home." Dean said, feeling ridiculously like a girl being walked to her door at the end of the date. Sam turned to face him.

"Okay. I guess I'll see you in school then." Sam looked oddly reluctant to leave and Dean stalled for time, scratching at the back of his head one-handed. After a long pause, Sam gave a little nod and spun slowly on his heel in the direction of his car.

"Sam, wait." The words came out unexpectedly, even to Dean. He racked his brains for something to say. "The…the bullets we shot at the thing. They'd have fallen out, right? Even the ones that might have…gotten lodged inside the wolf?"

Sam spun around, his thoughtful expression breaking into a slow grin brighter than the glow of the sun. "Maybe not. It's only the skin that sheds, after all. If a bullet hit deep enough, it might still be inside the guy." He flashed white teeth at Dean. "I shot it, in the hind leg at practically point-blank range."

Dean grinned back. "So you're saying that somewhere, there might be some guy walking around with a bullet in his backside?" He snickered. "Pain in the ass, literally." Sam looked like he was torn between looking disapproving and laughing at Dean's stupid joke.

A flash of brilliant white on the hand Sam had just pulled out of his left pocket attracted Dean's attention. A tightly bound bandage was wrapped around Sam's entire hand, covering the fingers up to the first knuckle and coming down to envelop the wrist. Dean's brow creased. He couldn't remember Sam having hurt his hand on Friday night. In fact, he'd been quite capable of catching the cell phone Dean had thrown to him back at the apartment. _What, the kid's not allowed to hurt himself doing something other than hunting? _Dean thought to himself. Except Sam followed his gaze, freezing with a deer-in-headlights expression on his face when he saw Dean looking at his hand, the smile sliding off his face like a mask falling to the floor. He shoved it roughly back in his pocket, his face tight. "Sam, what…" Before Dean could finish his question, he was interrupted.

"Dean!" A female voice called shrilly from behind him. "Where the hell have you been, I've been trying to call you all weekend. God, I cannot believe you stood me up!" Chrissie pounded along the sidewalk, high heels clacking loudly.

"Chrissie. Look, I can explain."

"I don't want to hear it! You better be making this up to me, or I'm not going to forgive you so easily this time." Dean half-turned to Chrissie, trying not to sigh. He could see Sam shrinking away from him on the sidewalk now their connection was broken, his face expressionless.

"I…I should probably go. It was nice running into you…sir." Sam said quietly, not meeting Dean's eyes. Before Dean could say anything to him, he was gone, striding up the street. Dean took a step after him, meaning to go after him, except apparently Chrissie wasn't done berating him.

"Dean Winchester, don't you walk away after what you did! Now are you gonna take me out tonight or not? And it better be somewhere expensive." Chrissie stamped one heeled foot to illustrate her point.

Dean clenched his fists. Speaking slowly, as if he was talking to a young child, Dean answered. "Chrissie, let me make this clear to you. It was fun, what we had. But I don't want to take you out, I don't want to make it up to you, and I don't particularly care if you forgive me or not."

Leaving Chrissie facing the empty space he'd been standing in, Dean followed the direction Sam had just walked in. The Mustang was gone. Scrubbing one hand roughly through his hair, he stood staring at the place the Mustang had been for a moment and then walked back to his car.

* * *

Apparently Sam didn't want to talk to him, Dean decided after leaving eleven voicemail messages on his cell phone and ringing countless unanswered times. He was pacing the floor of his apartment, trying to think of a reason, _any _reason, that Sam reacted the way he did. As if he was terrified of Dean now he'd seen Sam's bandaged hand. It just didn't make sense.

Trying Sam's cell phone again, Dean cursed himself under his breath for never getting Sam's address. At least if the kid didn't show up for school the next day, Dean could find it on the school's computer database. As Sam's voicemail picked up for around the fiftieth time, Dean snapped his phone shut with a sharp click and in annoyance threw it on the sofa. It bounced and hit the floor. Dean was tempted to go over and stamp on the thing just to give him something to vent his frustrations on.

He was distracted by the buzz of his doorbell. Frowning slightly, Dean wondered who the hell would be coming to see him at what was now nearly nine in the evening. _If it's Chrissie, I'm throwing her out on her ass, girl or not. Maybe then she might take a hint._ He marched into the hallway, wrenching the door open wide with the intention of giving her an earful.

Except instead of finding a blonde haired woman on his doorstep, he was greeted by the sight of floppy brown bangs and a pale boyish face looking nervously up at him.

"Sam. What are you doing here? I've been trying to call you all afternoon." Dean stepped back, trying not to reach out and grab the kid, make sure he doesn't run away again.

"I know. I came round to explain. Can I come in?" Sam asked in a small voice.

Dean waved him in, closing the door and following him into the living area. "Sit." Sam sat on the sofa, holding himself tense and still watching Dean from under his fringe with wide eyes. "D'you want some coffee or something?" Dean asked, trying stumblingly to put him at ease.

"Okay. Thank you."

Dean stepped into the kitchen reluctantly, half afraid that if he took his eyes off Sam, the kid would disappear into nowhere. He brewed a fresh pot of coffee, busying himself with the preparation and wiping down the surfaces after he was finished and trying not to stare at the back of Sam's head over the counter top dividing kitchen from living area. He poured out two mugs and carried them carefully back into the living area, placing one gently in front of Sam on the coffee table and taking a seat next to him on the sofa. Sam didn't look up, staring at the coffee mug as if it would tell him all life's secrets.

"Sam." The kid met his eyes with obvious reluctance. Dean took a breath. He had no idea how to even begin this conversation, no idea what he was supposed to be asking. But there was _something_ Sam wasn't telling him, and the only thing he had to go on was Sam's frightened reaction to Dean noticing his bandaged hand. _Okay_, he told himself, _I can do this_. "How did you hurt your hand?"

Sam didn't have a clue what he was going to tell the older man, only that it had better be a damn convincing story if he was going to get Dean to drop the subject. It had seemed like a good idea earlier, going to Dean's apartment instead of waiting for Dean to come to him, throw him off guard, and then maybe Sam would have a better chance to lie and not have it sound like desperate excuses. Only now he was here and Dean was asking, all Sam's explanations had turned to dust in his mouth, leaving him mentally stumbling and praying for something to say.

"I…It was an accident." It sounded pathetic even before it left his mouth.

"What was? Sam, what happened? You weren't hurt on Friday, I saw."

"Look, it's nothing, I just…caught it in the car door. It's stupid, I know. But I didn't want to say anything, it's not a big deal." Sam had a sudden memory of those TV adverts they showed, battered women and children defending their abusers, lying for them. He felt sickened by himself, even though he had a _good reason_ to lie. But then wasn't that what they all said?

"Then why did you freak out when I noticed? Why were you trying to hide it in the first place?" Dean was frowning, watching Sam's face intently and Sam tried to hold his gaze.

"I wasn't, not really. I was just worried, y'know, about everyone at school. I mean, I came in last week with a black eye, and then I come in this week with a bandaged hand. It looks kinda bad." It was the truth, at least. Somehow the justification didn't make him feel any better.

"Okay then. But why did you freak out when _I _saw it? I mean, you could've explained it to _me_, I know about the hunting stuff."

"Just, force of habit I guess. I'm used to hiding my injuries, especially if I'm going to school, otherwise people ask questions." Dean wasn't looking so concerned, seemingly satisfied with Sam's answers. Sam sent a silent thank you to whoever might have listened and taken pity on him. "Anyway, I guess I better go. I need to finish up some homework."

Sam stood, wanting to get the hell out of there before Dean could ask any more questions. Playacting that everything was fine was making his hand throb in time with his racing heart. Sam was beginning to worry that it might be broken after all. Removing the dressing earlier that morning had revealed skin mottled with navy blue and black, and the knuckles practically vibrated in pain without the support of the tight wrap holding them in place. Except there was no point worrying about it because he couldn't go to a hospital even if his hand was falling off. He had two credit cards, both in false names, but if he was going to be staying in the area for another month he couldn't risk scamming anyone if he could help it.

Before Sam could take a step toward the front door and freedom, Dean stood as well. "Wait a minute." Sam froze, trying to keep his face from revealing the panic churning within his stomach like butterflies turned toxic. His mind whispered litanies of _he knows he knows he's going to throw me out and never speak to me again because he's realised he knows I've lied_ and the thought that Dean might feel he could never trust Sam again was almost worse than his father's beatings. But Dean smiled at him and for a second Sam felt completely confused. "You never drank your coffee. You can stay for a while longer, can't you? You've got all weekend to do your homework. We still need to talk about how we're gonna look for this werewolf guy."

He wanted to cry out of sheer relief. Before he knew what he was doing, Sam had sunk back into his seat on the sofa, reaching for his coffee. It was only once he'd picked up the mug with his left hand that he realised all his effort and deceptions had been wasted. In that one moment he'd let himself forget.

It was like his hand was being bitten, jaws clamping down through muscle and scraping bone. His fingers spasmed uncontrollably and he dropped the mug, spilling coffee all over Dean's table and carpet. The mug shattered on the edge of the table, china pieces spraying everywhere. Sam didn't notice, his entire being focused on his twitching hand, teeth gritted to keep in the scream that wanted to escape.

Dean jumped up, startled. "Sam, what the…" Sam pulled his hand to his chest, instinctively trying to cradle it without allowing it to brush against anything. He closed his eyes and waited, for the pain to subside and for Dean to start asking his questions.

Sam was sitting on the sofa next to Dean, bandaged hand held close to his chest. He was curled in on himself like there was something he was trying to hide from, and Dean was completely thrown. He'd caught it in the car door, or so Sam had told him, and it must have been some slam to get a reaction like that from picking up a mug of coffee.

Dean couldn't think of anything to say and Sam kept his eyes downcast. The coffee dripping off of the table onto his carpet would stain, but Dean couldn't really get himself worked up about it right now, not with Sam sitting in front of him looking so damn _guilty_. Dean couldn't decide what he was feeling, what he should do. He felt the irrational urge to stand up, yell, demand Sam tell him what it is he's so desperate to keep hidden that he would lie and keep lying. But it wouldn't solve anything except to make Dean feel marginally better. Sam would turn tail and run if he didn't handle this carefully. He took a deep breath.

"Okay, now why don't you tell me what _really_ happened to your hand?"


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

Thank you so much for all your reviews, they've inspired me to write (even when I should be working) so keep them coming :) Lux Fati requested that I let y'all know when the next update will be, well I'm hoping to get the next chapter sorted and ready for the weekend, it should be up by Sunday if all goes well :) Hope you enjoy this chapter (or maybe not, what with all the Sammypain…)

Chapter 9

He didn't know what to say. Sam hadn't spoken since he had asked -_demanded_- to know what was going on, and now Dean had no idea how to broach the subject. The kid looked so lost, and so _exhausted_, his long limbs somehow pulled up into himself like he could make himself invisible if he could only shrink away enough.

"Sammy? You can talk to me. _Please_. What's going on? I just want to help you." Sam flinched at Dean's words like he'd been hit, but he didn't answer, didn't even look up. Dean ran a shaky hand through his hair. He so wasn't prepared to deal with shit like this.

The coffee dripped off the table in repetitive ticks and the sound irritated Dean in the silence of the room. He almost got up to get a cloth, except that would take him away from Sam and the fear that the kid might make a run for it rather than talk to him was back tenfold.

"It was my own fault." Sam's unexpected words spoken in a low voice nonetheless made Dean jump a little.

"What? What was your fault?"

"My hand. I deserved it. I didn't save the girl and I didn't do my job." The monotone reply was more disturbing than the words themselves and Dean still had no idea what Sam was talking about. Then their meaning registered and Dean blinked. _Wait a minute_.

"It wasn't an accident?" No reply. Sam tucked himself away, as if he was trying to burrow into the sofa. "What…Did-did you do it to yourself?" It didn't make sense. Sam was one of the strongest people Dean had ever known, up there with John Winchester in terms of mental fortitude and dedication to the cause. He wouldn't hurt himself deliberately. At least Dean didn't think he would. _You've known the kid a week. How do you know what he might do?_ Everything was mixed up and Dean really did not want to have to be the one to untangle it.

"Sam. Please talk to me. Are-are you hurting yourself?" Sam didn't move. Dean wanted desperately for the kid to say something, look in his direction. It felt like the world had tilted sideways and Dean couldn't find his feet, everything was upended in his head. Sam wouldn't…but his hand had been hurt _somehow_. If only he could get a straight answer from the kid. "Kid…I don't know what to say. Can you just…talk to me? Christ." He didn't know what to do with his hands, reaching up to his head and letting them drop. "I don't know what to do. Maybe you could talk to your dad?"

The idea was half cowardice; if someone else could deal with the problem then Dean could pretend it didn't exist. But as soon as his father was mentioned, Sam was springing up in his seat, wide eyes imploring. "No! Don't…you can't say anything. My dad doesn't need to know."

Dean started at the reaction he'd unexpectedly provoked. "Sam, you need to talk to someone."

"You can't tell him!"

"What? Why not?" Sam looked away, chewing at his lower lip. "Sam, why don't you want your dad to know?" It meant something and for a second Dean didn't see it, or maybe didn't _want_ to see it. But it made sense in a perverse way and he had to ask, even though he couldn't quite believe it. "Is…is it him? Does he hit you?"

Sam froze at the question, his entire body stiff. Dean felt every beat of his heart like his veins were on fire.

"Your hand. Your…your dad did that to you? Oh God, Sam." He heard himself speaking, wondered at the despairing tone before the actual feeling hit him in a rush and his chest felt too small. "Why? Why do you let him hurt you like that?" Sam blinked and the fear in his eyes melted away in red tears. Finally looking Dean straight in the face, a twisted smirk touching his lips that made him look old and world-weary, Sam answered.

"Because he's my dad."

* * *

His father was going to kill him. No ifs or buts this time, Sam was going to be dead when Jim Miller found out that Dean knew. That Sam had practically spilled it all out at one look from his teacher. This was why he shouldn't get close to people. Having friends, feeling something for someone else, it made him weak. And he couldn't take it back, couldn't erase the last half hour no matter how much he needed to.

Dean wasn't saying anything. Sam sat silently next to him, hardly daring to move. The older man was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, head in hands. What Dean must be thinking, Sam didn't know. Didn't want to know.

He looked down at his hands, the left cradled softly in the right. Staring until they blurred into indistinct shapes, colours running into each other and it only registered then that he was crying.

* * *

It still didn't make sense. That Sam's father was different to his own, Dean had already figured out for himself. Stricter, sure, more focused on his goal than on taking care of his son. But it had never for a second occurred to Dean that Sam might be being hurt. Or _allowing _himself to be hurt, because there was no way Sam couldn't take care of himself if he needed to, Dean had seen it. So why was Sam letting his dad beat him up like that?

Dean dug his fingers into his hair, feeling the fingerprints of pressure against his skull. God, he wished this conversation were over. But he still didn't understand, not entirely, and he needed to hear it. That he cared about Sam enough to want to understand, to help the kid, came as a shock of cold water.

Dean huffed and ran a hand over his face. The room seemed too hot. Confrontations weren't something Dean relished. Some people he'd known in college had seemed to seek them out. A few girls he'd 'known' had tried more than once to draw him into screaming matches. It made Dean uncomfortable, too reminiscent of the only major fight he'd ever had, with his dad about his quitting hunting for a normal life. Apparently time hadn't done anything to conquer his fear. But he took another breath and looked up at Sam.

"Why did you let your dad do that to your hand?" Sam darted a look at him, eyes big and frightened like a skittish animal. Dean forced himself to keep eye contact, face even and calm.

"I deserved it. I had a job to do and I didn't get it done. I should have finished it, like he told me to." Sam's answer, practically a whisper, sent a shiver creeping up Dean's spine. God, how had he not seen this, when Sam was so clearly and starkly hurting right in front of him?

It could have easily been him, Dean realised with a shiver. John Winchester was driven by his need for revenge, but he was a good father at the same time. He had looked after Dean and done his best for his only son. But there were similarities between Sam's father and his own.

He still didn't _understand_, and it was driving him crazy and aching his head. There had to be a reason that Sam let his father do this to him. There had to be a reason behind Sam's blind obedience.

"Sam, why do you do it? Why do you do what your father tells you to? Why do you hunt?" The questions slid out before Dean thought them through and hung in the air between them, caught in their matched gazes. Dean was surprised to find he was practically panting on air, the questions he'd wanted to ask the first time he discovered what Sam did finally out in the open.

"I do it because I have to."

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to." Dean felt the urge to reach out and touch Sam in some way, reassure him that it was okay. But Sam seemed to be shrinking away on the sofa again, crumpling in on himself as if he could fold his body away and disappear. Dean felt a flash of impotent rage at Sam's father. His hands curled into fists and he was suddenly desperate to find the man, show him exactly what Dean thought of his 'teaching methods'. But a rare streak of insight kept the emotions from crossing his face. Sam didn't need his anger, not yet. "Sam, you don't have to do it."

"I have to do it, whether I want to or not." Sam said in a small voice. His hands writhed tightly in his lap, picking at the bandages and his head fell forward.

"Why?"

"I just do."

"_Why_, Sam?" Dean demanded, rougher than he'd meant to.

"Because it's my fault my mother died!" Sam's head came up so fast it was surprising he didn't get whiplash. His eyes were a myriad of rolling emotions, his face screwing up tightly like he was trying not to let anything show. Dean leant back before he could help himself, his fury at Sam's father momentarily diverted.

"What? Sam…what?" He tried to connect everything, make it match up, but it seemed he still had a few pieces missing. He blinked, looking hard at Sam as if he could read the answers off the curves of his body. Sam looked to the side just as quickly as he'd looked up, his face white.

Dean felt the absurd urge to ask for a time out. He wanted to sit down, take a breather, maybe make himself a strong drink and consider everything. The room was stifling, the air tasted stale and toxic. Sam wasn't speaking, wasn't doing anything except staring at the carpet. Dean noticed distantly that there was a stain on the floor by the growing puddle of coffee and he tried to recall what he'd spilt. _Probably a beer stain_. He could remember more than one occasion when he'd returned home stumbling over his own feet, only to head to the fridge and grab another bottle before bed. To help him sleep, he justified.

"My mom died because of me." Sam's voice was barely above a whisper. "She was killed by a demon, I think I told you before. She died trying to protect me." His eyes darted to Dean's, then back to his hands in his lap. "It was my fault. If I hadn't been there…"

Dean remembered the death of his own mother. He remembered blaming himself, just as Sam did. His dad had told him again and again that it wasn't his fault, that there was nothing anyone could have done, especially not a small and frightened child. The best way to avenge her death was to fight. Apparently Sam had only gotten half of that memo and now it all made some sort of insane sense.

He looked around the room, uncomfortable in the silence and knowing he had to _do_ something, talk to Sam and try and set right some of the wrongs Sam's father had been the cause of. He stood up, reaching out a hand uncertainly. Maybe he should have practised serious talks before attempting one for the first time _now_, when it was actually _important_. He thought back, trying to remember how John had talked to him. Crouching down in front of Sam, Dean tried to meet the younger man's eyes. Sam kept his head down, hair tumbling forward.

"Sam…how old were you? When…when your mom died?" He asked gently.

"I…I dunno exactly. I was a baby."

"Then what could you have done? How could you have possibly changed anything, you weren't even old enough to stand up by yourself! Your mom chose to protect her son. It was her choice. She obviously loved you enough to sacrifice herself, so you would live and be happy." Dean hesitated for a second, putting what he hoped was a comforting hand on Sam's upper arm. Sam didn't move. "Sam, are you happy doing this?"

It was like watching a window crack. Fine lines appeared in Sam's carefully worn mask, spreading into splinters thin as blades. "You don't…you don't understand." Sam choked out.

"So tell me. Why do you hunt?" Dean asked softly.

"Because…because my dad tells me to." Dean felt slight tremors shaking Sam's arm. "He tells me to hunt because it's my fault my mom died."

"He blames you?"

"It's my fault! He lost his wife because of me, I owe her my life!" Sam pulled fiercely away from Dean, his whole body trembling.

"Sam, it is _not_ your fault, you didn't _do _anything!" Dean tried to reach out to Sam again. Sam swung an arm out, catching Dean sharply across the cheek. He fell back, landing hard. Sam was up and on his feet before Dean had time to think, looking taut and ready for a fight. The older man struggled up to meet him face to face. Brown hair hung in tousled clumps in Sam's eyes, the rage shining through his tears like sunlight filtered through glass.

Everything was out. His whole life, his sordid secrets, all laid bare in front of him. And it hurt like nothing he'd felt before, like a gaping wound ripped open, nerves exposed to poison air. Sam couldn't catch up to himself to stop his mouth and busy tongue spilling everything, and now Dean knew it all and he could barely force himself to meet the older man's eyes. And the pain, too much to even begin to handle. Sam felt his eyes tearing up and couldn't stop the wetness overflowing in rivulets down his numb cheeks.

Sam waited silently for Dean to turn and walk away in revulsion, to demand Sam get out of his apartment and never call him for help again, because why did Sam deserve _anything_ after what he'd let happen? Sam felt disgusted by himself.

"Sam." Deans voice ringing out loud in the still and loaded air made Sam look him in the face without meaning to. Dean's face was pale and flat but his eyes were ringed in red. It made the green irises shine like holly leaves. "Sam, I promiseyou that it is _not _your fault that your mom died. She wouldn't want this for you, she died to _protect_ you. She _loved _you. And you do not deserve to be punished for it. No matter what anyone, even your dad, says or does."

Sam felt the last painful fragments of his composure crumble away like rocks on a cliff face. He fell back, sitting on the sofa with a muffled bump. Looking ahead blindly, it took him by surprise when hard sobs wrenched free of his chest. He toppled forward, catching his face in both hands, ignoring the flare of pain and screwing palms into his eyes like he wanted to tear them out. A second later he felt arms wrapping around his uncontrollably shaking frame and pulling him close to be tightly cradled against Dean's chest. The older man didn't say a word, kneeling in front of the sofa and holding him together as the stifled emotion he'd been carrying around for so long broke free and escaped in big huffs of air and tears.

* * *

Sam cried for what seemed like forever. Dean didn't move, didn't say anything, just held him in strong arms. As his stifling sobs tapered off Sam felt somehow lighter, as if he'd coughed up some dark spindly mass that had been choking him in venom for the whole of his life without him even realising it was there. Dean's freely-given comfort felt cleansing.

He let himself be supported, resting his head in the dip of shoulder and neck and breathing in the cool air. It felt fresh against his damp face. The shivers persisted, rattling his teeth and bones like ghosts stamping repeatedly over his grave. Or maybe just one ghost, the ghost of the mother he'd never known in life but had been unable to let go of in death. He wanted to finally be free of his obligation to her, to move on. To live the life she would have wanted him to have.

Sam's chest throbbed with each breath. It felt like he had run a marathon at a sprint and he couldn't get enough oxygen to power his limbs or body, all he could do was breathe, in and out, each rush of air deliberate and measured. He could hear his heart racing, Dean's a slow and steady opposite, beating once for every three beats his own took. The room around them looked indistinct and blurry and Sam couldn't concentrate enough to focus on any one detail.

His mom was dead and his dad hated him. The stab wound of grief in his heart was new and red. It was as if it had only happened minutes ago. But the jagged agony felt _purer _now, like the amputation of an infected limb.

Sam turned his head, pressing his face into Dean's neck as fresh tears welled in his eyes. Dean let him, raising a hand to cup the back of his head at the join where skull met spine. His little finger grazed the baby-fine hair at the nape of Sam's neck, a lick of cold that flooded Sam's head in goose-pimple chills. Everything felt hyper-sensitive and his skin itched all over at the press of cloth, even the softest materials feeling rough as burlap sack. The thin stretch of Dean's pale neck was cool against his cheek, sharp contrast to the heat radiating from his own body.

Dean shifted Sam's lax form, gathering him closer. He pressed lips to the curve of Sam's throat briefly, so quick and powder-gentle Sam wondered if he'd meant to do it. The spot burned with fiery intensity all the same, an invisible tattoo painted onto tender flesh. He didn't want to move, ever. Dean was a haven, a hidden warmth that at that moment seemed invincible.

Sam's forehead felt hot enough to melt ice in the Artic. If Dean hadn't known any better he would've been rushing the kid to the hospital with a raging fever. Unfortunately he did know better though, which was freaking him out just a little bit because Sam had just spilled everything inside him to Dean, and now it was all out and he had no idea what he was supposed to do next. Ad-libbing had gotten him this far but now his mind had gone blank and he was starting to panic slightly. He was pretty sure he should be saying something, but no flashes of inspiration seemed to be forthcoming. The one thing he knew he did want to do was to find Sam's father and have a little chat with the man. Just thinking about it made him feel hot and tense and he breathed deeply, trying to think soothing thoughts.

Sam seemed to be okay for the moment, content with lying still in Dean's arms while Dean tried to provide some meagre comfort with horribly inadequate gestures. Sam looked so delicate and defenceless. The colour in his face appeared to have washed away, leaving the curve of his throat and jaw white as bone. His neck was bent at an uncomfortable angle and Sam seemed perfectly willing to stay limp and pliant like a rag doll. If Dean hadn't been able to feel the pacing beat of Sam's heart, the stuttering rise and fall of his chest, he would have thought Sam was dead. The tickle of damp eyelashes flickering against the underside of his chin said Sam was perfectly aware. So Dean did what he could, ignoring the painful twinge growing as his kneecaps pressed into the hard floor and holding onto Sam for as long as he needed Dean there.

* * *

"Sam? You…you okay there kid?" Dean hated to break the quiet moment before Sam was ready, but what had started out as mild discomfort in his knees had rapidly progressed to lead pain vibrating up and down his stiffly held body. His feet and lower legs had gone to sleep about five minutes previously, and he dreaded the hellish case of pins and needles that would attack him when he finally stood up.

Sam shifted, coming back to life at the sound of Dean's voice. He made a snuffling noise and brought a hand up to cuff at his nose. "Yeah. Uh, sorry about, you know, crying all over you." He pulled away sharply, sitting back on the sofa and screwing the heel of his good hand into his eyes.

"Hey, don't apologise. It's okay." It seemed his limited supply of supportive speeches had been exhausted for a while, so Dean settled on awkwardly patting Sam's knee twice. He climbed laboriously to his feet, feeling like a cripple. Joints cracked painfully and his kneecaps felt like they'd been hit with a sledgehammer. The electric-shock pain in his lower legs started stinging at his nerves as the blood rushed to fill the deprived areas.

Sam stood as well and Dean took a quick step back from the close proximity. He couldn't tell if the flushed red on Sam's face was caused by his crying jag or embarrassment at Dean's presence.

"C'mon Sammy. Let's get you something to eat and I'll check that hand for you. No arguments." Sam still looked pale but he attempted a shaky smile at Dean's words and let himself be led into the kitchen. Dean couldn't help the arm that slid around Sam's waist as he walked.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

Thank you far all your reviews, I'm glad you liked the last chapter :) The next update should be on Wednesday if I can find the time to read through it between now and then…

Chapter 10

After eating a plateful of microwave scrambled eggs, Dean insisted on checking Sam's bruised hand. Sam sat at the counter in the kitchen while Dean unwrapped his bandage carefully, lifting the gauze Sam had used to pad each side. Sam inwardly winced as the support was removed but he didn't let anything show on his face. Pain was for pussies.

The sight of blackened knuckles and marbled swirls of bruising made Dean twitch slightly, but no revulsion or shock appeared on his face. Instead he carefully felt along the lines of each bone in Sam's hand to check for damage. He made Sam bend each finger as far as he could to test the nerve response. When he seemed to be satisfied, Dean brought out fresh gauze and bandages from a cupboard. Holding out a hand, Dean looked up at Sam for silent permission to rewrap it. Gently, like he was handling a baby bird, Dean placed a pad of gauze on the knuckles and under the palm. He wrapped the whole package in a bandage, frowning in concentration as he worked and smoothing the bandage into place with soft fingers. Sam watched Dean's face rather than look at the mess that was his hand. The older man looked up, hand still holding Sam's, to meet Sam's eyes.

"All done." Dean said, not dropping Sam's hand.

"Thanks." Dean was watching him, an indefinable look on his face. Sam noticed that Dean's eyes were almost the same green as his own, maybe a shade lighter.

"No problem." The intense look left Dean's face in a hurry. He let go of Sam's hand. "I don't think it's broken anywhere, but you should probably get it checked out at a hospital if it doesn't start healing in a few days." Dean said, fussing with the dirty dishes.

"Dean." Sam got his attention. He didn't want to have to talk about his now-revealed shame anymore, but he needed to make sure Dean understood before they could drop the subject. "About…my dad." Dean's face darkened at the mention.

"What about him?"

"You…you can't say anything to him. You can't tell him I told you." Sam said, imploring with his eyes. Dean blinked, his mouth opening slightly in shock.

"Sam, what…you can't expect me to just _forget_ what you told me! I'm not gonna let him get away with what he's done to you." _But I deserved it_, Sam screamed in his mind. _How can you not see that after everything I told you?_ He closed his eyes.

"Dean, it'll be worse if he finds out I told. Just…let me take care of myself. I've done it for the last sixteen years." A trace of bitterness leaked into his words and Sam flushed a little.

"Yeah, and now you don't have to. I'm not going to just _allow_ him to keep on beating you up."

Sam clenched his jaw. But before he could say anything else, Dean was standing in front of him, helping him up from his chair and leading him into the living area as if he was some kind of invalid.

"C'mon kid, you can stay here tonight." Sam stared at him, feeling Dean's arm against his back.

"What?"

Dean turned to face him. "You're in no condition to go home by yourself, and it's practically midnight now, you might as well sleep here." Dean's eyes widened slightly and his cheeks flushed. "Not, uh, like that. I mean, you can take the bed and I'll sleep on the sofa."

"Oh." He felt his face getting hot to match Dean's and they both looked away. "Uh, thanks, but you don't have to."

"It's no problem." The tone brooked no argument.

Dean left Sam in his bedroom changing into sweats and an old tee shirt Dean had dug up for him to borrow. Already he was regretting telling the kid to stay with him, and not just because it would look incredibly wrong to anyone who might find out about it. He'd crossed a lot of lines with Sam, gone further than was considered appropriate. But the situation wasn't normal, he justified. Sam wasn't just another student.

He poured out a glass of water and searched the cupboards in his kitchen for a couple of ibuprofen pills for Sam's hand. The kid's story was still creeping around in the corners of his mind, not quite sunk in yet. He was still having trouble believing that Sam would ever put up with that kind of treatment from his father, let alone think that he _deserved _it. And Dean could tell that although Sam wanted to believe his insistence that his mother's death wasn't his fault, his fathers programming was still the overriding force in his head.

By the time he went back into the bedroom with a glass of water and two white pills, Sam was asleep in his bed, wrapped up in a nest of blankets.

* * *

The sound of a coffee maker percolating woke Sam from his deep and thankfully dreamless sleep. For a second he didn't know where he was, lying still and blinking at the clean and comfortable bed he was in. The bed sheets were soft and smelled of faint lavender. The mattress was firm and lump-free, and the pillows (multiple) were padded, unlike the flat and well-pounded ones found in the motel rooms he more often than not stayed in. He heard movement outside the room, someone humming Led Zeppelin and clinking china. The aroma of bacon cooking floated in through the open doorway.

He sat up, his body less stiff and sore for sleeping in a proper bed with warm covers for once. Seeing pills and water on the night stand, he swallowed them down dry and went in search of Dean.

He found him in the kitchen, standing in front of the stove and poking at frying bacon with a spatula. Dean hadn't shown any awareness of Sam, so Sam took the moment to watch him silently. Dean flipped the bacon expertly and hummed along to the song playing in his head, singing a few random lines as he worked. He wore a pair of old jeans, frayed at the cuffs where they dragged along the ground and worn to a bleached out blue. They moulded the backs of his legs and ass like he'd been born wearing them and Sam spent a moment staring unabashedly.

Dean glanced in his direction and jumped at the sight of Sam. "Shit, you scared the crap outta me!" Sam gave a small smile and quickly looked down at his feet.

"Sorry." He looked back up at Dean's face through his hair. Dean was smiling uncertainly, like he wasn't sure how to act around Sam now.

"How are you feeling? Sleep okay?" Dean asked hesitantly.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Can…can we not talk about it? What I told you last night?" Sam used his best pleading face. Dean frowned a little, his mouth tightening, but he nodded reluctantly.

"Okay. For now." Dean turned back to the bacon cooking. "So, you want some breakfast?"

* * *

Dean had spent an uncomfortable night on the sofa, his mind replaying Sam's confession again and again. And Sam's refusal at breakfast to talk about it at all just made it worse. The more he thought about it, the stronger the urge to beat the crap out of Sam's dad became. How _dare_ that fucker think he had any right to touch Sam? The kid was way too good to be treated like that, he was sweet and kind and selfless and…And Dean had to stop thinking, right now.

Christ, he'd allowed a student to spend the night at his house, _in his bed_. And said student was currently in his shower, naked and using Dean's shower gel and Herbal Essences shampoo and toothpaste. Dean slumped heavily on the sofa. What the hell was he thinking, getting so involved? This had to end, right now. He'd help Sam with the werewolf, maybe try and get him to talk to someone about his dad, but that was _it_. No emotions.

Picking up the pillow and sheets he'd used the night before, Dean carried them into the bedroom and stuffed them untidily into a cupboard. He could hear Sam in the bathroom, the irregular tap of water on glass as he stood under the shower. Dean felt his face flush when he caught himself looking at the closed bathroom door and turned away quickly, walking out of the bedroom.

It felt surreal, Dean knowing everything. All the secrets Sam had tried so hard to conceal from the world, and he couldn't quite get his head around the fact that Dean hadn't told him to get out yet. He dried himself quickly with one hand, the still-bandaged left hand held awkwardly away from his wet body. The scent of cucumber-melon shower gel lingered on his skin and in the humid air of the small bathroom. He wiped down the mirror above the sink with one hand, preparing to clean his teeth when he saw the inky bruises littering his torso in the reflection. He froze, staring blankly at himself with cold eyes.

The sound of something being dropped outside broke him free of his daze. He looked toward the door almost furtively, like Dean could see him through the wood. The humiliation of showing off his battered body was more than he could take after the shame of the night before.

Sam pulled on his tee shirt roughly, smoothing it over himself and refusing to meet his own gaze in the mirror.

* * *

Dean looked up from his seat at the counter as Sam stepped out of the bedroom, damp hair hanging in wet clumps in his eyes. His face was pink from the steam. The kid gave him a shy smile when he noticed Dean's interest, taking a hesitant step toward him.

"I guess I better get going."

"Yeah, okay." Dean had the irrational urge to ask the kid to stay, just move in with him and stay _right there_ where Dean could see him, could know he was alright. But Sam was picking up his keys and cell phone from the coffee table where he'd put them last night, before he'd spilled his soul to Dean.

He stood, unsure of himself suddenly. What was the appropriate gesture for saying goodbye to students who'd stayed the night at your apartment? Apparently Sam didn't know either and they stood uncomfortably in front of each other, not able to hold their gaze without one of them looking away. Finally Dean gestured to the door and Sam walked toward it with something like relief. Dean followed him to the open door. He could see Sam's Mustang parked on the opposite side of the street. The kid gave him another of his sweet smiles and turned to walk to his car, but Dean caught his arm before he could take a step.

"Sam? Look, about your dad." Sam tensed.

"What about him?" He said guardedly.

"Look, I don't want to argue with you about it, but you said he's not here right now? At your apartment."

"No, he's in Iowa." Sam looked at the ground. "I didn't lie about that."

"Okay, that's all I wanted to know. I just…didn't want you turning up at school on Monday black and blue because you didn't come home last night." Dean tried to sound light, but it was hard forcing the words out. "But, just so you know, we _are_ still gonna have a talk about that soon. I'm not going to stand by and let you get beaten up." Sam looked over at Dean, his mouth pressed in a thin line. Finally he gave a curt nod and pulled his arm out of Dean's grip, walking across the road to the waiting Mustang without a word.

* * *

Sam spent the rest of the weekend alone in the empty apartment. He cleaned all the rooms except for his father's bedroom, washed every plate and cup and kitchen utensil in the place, scrubbed down every surface he could find, even balanced painfully on his hands and knees to wash the floor, his bad hand drawn up to his stomach. He removed years-old mould from the corners of the bathroom, polished the windows until all the water stains were gone, washed down the rickety coffee table until the ancient rings from millions of glasses and cups dissolved into nothing. When he was finished he allowed himself to collapse on his battered sofa, hugging his legs to his body and praying his father wouldn't come back for him ever.

* * *

Dean waited until the end of class on Monday before calling Sam over with a surreptitious wave. The kid made his excuses to his little blonde friend and took his time packing up his bag until everyone had left the room. He looked up at Dean with an uneasy glance, making his way through the maze of desks. Dean wanted to tell him to calm down, he wasn't going to discuss Sam's father _here_. It would feel almost blasphemous to talk about something so private in school, where the difference in their relationship was made so blatant to both of them.

"I wanted to talk about the werewolf." Dean said in a lowered voice. No point in making it easy to overhear _that_ subject either. Sam visibly relaxed, tension fading from his body.

"Oh. Yeah, what about it?"

"Well, are we gonna try and find this guy?" Dean asked.

"Yeah. I thought we could go through the names, check out their backgrounds, the areas they lived in. If there're any corresponding attacks around the right times and places, we'll have some leads."

"Good idea. Do you have a laptop?"

"My dad took it." Sam said in a quiet voice. His jaw tightened, like he expected Dean to leap on the subject now it had been mentioned. Dean bit the inside of his mouth and pretended he hadn't seen Sam's reaction.

"Well we could use mine, but it's not all that reliable. We'd probably be better off in the library again, or using the school computer lab. If we meet up after school finishes tomorrow, we could give it a shot."

"Okay." Sam met Dean's eyes almost apologetically. "I'll meet you here after school tomorrow." He held the contact for a second longer, then walked away.

* * *

Sam sat silently in front of the computer in the school computer sciences lab, systematically going through the names on his list and crossing them off one by one.

"So, found anything yet?" Sam nearly jerked back as Dean's voice spoke in his ear. The older man had attempted to sit still and help, but after half an hour Sam could practically feel the air vibrate with stifled movement next to him. He'd hidden his smile and tactfully mentioned that he could handle this by himself if Dean wanted to do something else. Dean had objected at first but then after another failed attempt had given up and offered to help by getting Sam some coffee from the teachers' lounge instead.

"Not yet. But I've still got over half of the names to go. If none of the names on the list match up to any attacks, then at least we'll have ruled them out."

"You need any help?"

"I'm good." Dean hovered behind Sam for a few seconds, indecisive. Sam turned around intending on telling Dean he was fine doing it by himself, only to be confronted by Dean's shirt-covered abs inches from his nose. He ducked away, almost falling off his chair. "Uh, don't worry about it."

Dean took several hasty steps back, a hand coming up to nervously rub at the back of his neck. "Yeah, okay. I'll, uh, leave this here." Sam watched from under his bangs as the other man carefully reached out and placed the paper coffee cup on the desk with the cautious movements of someone expecting a sudden attack. He sat on a chair on the opposite side of the room, giving Sam a slightly sheepish smile. Sam bit his lip and tried to get back to work, deliberately ignoring Dean's presence.

He really should talk to Sam about this whole…_relationship_ they had going on right now, Dean thought as he absentmindedly poured what must have been the twentieth cup of coffee that day. After many trips from one end to the school to the other, he'd finally given in and brought the small coffee maker into the computer lab with him.

He didn't want Sam getting any ideas, thinking that Dean was trying to hit on him or anything. The kid already had a complex about authority figures, the last thing he needed was to worry about sleazy teachers inviting him to spend time alone with them. _Even if it is completely innocent_, he thought as he stirred in sugar and placed the cup in front of Sam.

The kid was still pounding away, now using a second computer to load up various news articles and police reports. He was focused intently on the screens. According to Sam, his dad did all the research before hunts and then sent for Sam to do the actual hunting, but Sam didn't seem too shoddy at research himself. The green in Sam's eyes shone brilliantly in the glow of the screen. Without looking away, Sam snaked his good hand around the computer and snatched up the cup of coffee.

Dean wandered aimlessly around the room. He wanted to find himself something to do rather than sitting around feeling useless, but he didn't want to disturb Sam's researching marathon. He glanced at the clock. It was nearly seven in the evening.

"Dean. I think I found something." Dean looked over to Sam.

"Our guy?" Dean walked over to stand behind Sam, looking at the computer screen over his shoulder.

"I dunno. There are two possibilities actually, I'm pretty sure it's not the first guy, but we should probably check out both just to be safe." Sam pointed his finger at two names on the list. Most of the others had been crossed out. "I'll check out the rest of these just to be sure, but these guys match up with our circumstances."

"William Henderson and James Dale." Dean read.

"Yep. James Dale was living in Michigan for five years before he moved here. I checked out old news articles and for about eight months before our attacks started, there were a string of violent murders, big on the blood and guts. Not that it actually said that, I read between the lines a little." Sam looked up with a half-smile. "They thought it was a serial killer or some kind of psychopath. There haven't been any more reported murders for a few months now."

"So that's our guy." Dean said, flashing his teeth in a grin. "Let's go get him."

"Wait, wait. There haven't been any _reported _murders in Michigan in the last three months. The police might be keeping it quiet. It might just be an ordinary psycho guy that happened to be there at the same time and place as our guy."

"Okay. So what about this other guy?"

"This one's pretty much the same deal, only in Ohio. The police reports say the victims look like they've been attacked by wild dogs. And there's one witness from an attack about four months ago, said he was attacked as he was walking home by some kind of animal. It doesn't say if he was bitten or not." Sam twisted around to face Dean. "But I'm not sure it's him either. He lives in an apartment with his girlfriend. I'm guessing she would notice if he disappeared for three nights in a row. And this thing _hunts_, if he changed anywhere near her then she would be the easy target."

Dean sat down at the long desk and moved over to get a clearer view, scanning the articles Sam had on the screen. "Well at least we have something to go on. And it _could _be one of these guys."

"Yeah. James Dale seems the more likely out of the two, unless William has a really bad relationship with his girlfriend."

"Or maybe she's into bestiality." Dean waggled his eyebrows. Sam gave him a scathing look. "What? You never know."

* * *

The final names on the list ruled out, Dean returned the coffee maker to the teachers' lounge and locked up the computer lab. Sam waited silently at his side holding the printed copies of news reports and details. The corridors of the school were empty, the only background noise the distant sound of the caretakers vacuuming classrooms on the other side of the building.

"So, we go talk to these guys now, find out if they were busy over the full moon?" Dean asked Sam as they started walking, side by side.

"Yep. Of course it might not be either of them, then we'll really be stuck…" As they neared the exit, a voice calling Dean's name from behind them stopped them in their tracks. Dean spun around on his heel, trying to keep the guilty expression off his face.

"Mr Winchester. What are you still doing here?" The Principal strode up the corridor after them, all neat grey lines and stern expression. She looked surprised to see Dean and he couldn't really blame her. It wasn't like he made a habit of spending time at school after hours, and never this late.

Dean resisted the urge to look at his feet like a chastised child. "I was…helping Sam with an assignment." He gestured to Sam standing behind him.

"Oh really?" She looked doubtful.

"Yes ma'am. He's the new transfer student, I thought I should help him catch up with the rest of the class." Sam was watching the exchange with a perfectly calm expression. When Principal Markenham looked in his direction he gave her a quiet little smile and ducked his head.

"Dean, may I talk to you privately for a second?" He gritted his teeth at the Principal's words but smiled brightly at her.

"Of course. Sam, I'll see you in school tomorrow."

Sam nodded to him. "Okay, Sir. Thank you for your help." He turned and walked away reluctantly, taking one quick glance back at Dean. Principal Markenham waited until the doors closed behind him before saying anything.

"Dean. I've been meaning to discuss Sam Miller with you, actually. Or more specifically, your relationship with him." Dean's heart stuttered to a halt, then began pumping triple-time.

"What…what about Sam Miller?" He hoped his voice didn't give anything away. But Principal Markenham didn't seem to notice anything.

"Some of his teachers have voiced concerns about him, or more specifically about the…injuries he seems to have. Last week he came to school with a black eye, then in gym his teacher noticed a bandage around his hand. I'm sure you've noticed."

Dean nearly caved in relief. "Yes, I have. But, uh, what do I have to do with it?"

"Well, I've seen the interest you've taken in the boy, and I was hoping you might be able to get him to talk about it. It'll probably be nothing, but just in case."

"Uh, yeah of course. I'll have a word with him about it."

"Thank you. And it's nice to see you taking an interest in your students for once, I must say."

Dean waited until she walked away before sagging against the wall. _Taking an interest. Yeah._ He nearly choked on a hoarse laugh.


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

Thanks for all the reviews, they really do inspire me to write more, even when I should be doing other things…Hope you guys like this chapter, the next one should be up over the weekend :)

Chapter 11

Finally, they were _doing something_. Dean tried not to let his relief show. With Sam doing all the work, he had felt kind of inadequate and in the way. After school Sam had taken the Mustang straight around to Dean's apartment, jumping into the passenger seat of the Impala and letting Dean drive while he pointed the way to the first address.

From Sam's research they'd found out that William Henderson had recently graduated from Ohio State and was working at a local computer tech college. _Which is a lucky break_, Dean thought, _I _knew_ I'd regret burning all my old ID's. _And it's not like Sam could pass for anything other than a teenage kid, even if he had the ID to back him up. Which he didn't, as he pointed out to Dean, "My dad does all the talking-to-people stuff. Who would discuss their child's horrific murder with a sixteen year old?" Dean's hand had tightened on the wheel at the mention of Sam's dad. Sam noticed the whitened knuckles and flushed, hair falling forward into his eyes.

He drove just a little too fast, cutting corners and taking sharp turns. One elbow rested on the open window frame and Black Sabbath was playing in the tape deck, turned up loud. It was only when they arrived outside William Henderson's apartment that he realised he'd been showing off. For Sam.

They walked up the paved path to the apartment complex, checking the number on the scrap of paper Sam had scribbled the address on. The apartments themselves were smaller than Dean's, cheap and cheerful housing to accommodate first-time buyers. They stopped in front of a painted off-white door identical to all the others.

"This is it. Sixty-two." Sam nodded to the door.

"Okay. I'll do the talking, you just stand there and look pretty." Dean said with a grin. Sam blushed and Dean realised he'd just called the kid pretty. Mentally smacking the heel of his hand against his forehead repeatedly, he turned to the door and pressed the buzzer, keeping his gaze pointed forward.

A few seconds passed and then the sound of someone unlatching the door. It opened to reveal a thin brunette woman wearing a tank top and bikini bottoms. She blinked at them. "Oh, I'm sorry, I was expecting someone else." She laughed, sounding embarrassed. "I don't usually come to the door in my underwear, honestly."

Dean gave her his brightest smile, looking her up and down and not bothering with discretion. "It's no problem at all. Really." Her face was pink and she laughed again, sounding less embarrassed.

"Uh, just let me go and put something on, I'll be right back." As soon as she disappeared from the doorway, Sam elbowed Dean in the side.

"Ow! What?"

"What was that?" Sam hissed. "You know, she's the _girlfriend_ of the guy we're here to see, you don't need to _drool_ on her."

"I wasn't drooling, I was making her feel at ease." Dean huffed.

The girl came back, a pair of loose pants over the bikini bottoms. "Sorry about that. I was sunbathing out back. Anyway, what can I do for you?" She said, barely glancing at Sam before turning all her attention onto Dean. He grinned slowly.

"Well…" He began with a slow grin. Sam elbowed him again. He gave him a quick look. "I was actually looking for a Mr…Henderson?" He said, making a show of looking at the scrap of paper. The girl looked a little disappointed.

"Oh. Will's my boyfriend, he's not here right now. Out on a business meeting."

"Aw, that's a shame. I was really hoping to have a word. My name's Dean Winchester, and this is my little brother Sam. I work at Elmstead High and we were given his name by the tech school. We could use a part-time computer guy in the lab and I was wondering if he would be interested?" Dean didn't have a clue whether or not they actually needed a computer technician at Elmstead High, but he figured if the guy phoned up the school asking about it later and he gave _Dean's_ name as a reference, none of the administrative staff would take it seriously anyway. "Do you know if he'll be back soon?"

"I'm not sure. You could come in and wait if you wanted." The girl fluttered eyelashes at Dean and he heard Sam partially disguise his sound of disgust. Dean smiled at her, all teeth.

"That would be great."

Sam was used to being ignored. It was practically normal behaviour for him, to sit silently in a corner and not move. But the intense rush of irrational anger that left him fuming was new. Dean was sitting opposite the girl, who'd finally introduced herself as Tina, staring at her like she was a prime cut of meat. She was perched on the very edge of her chair, leaning forward to give Dean a good view of her cleavage. And Dean was lapping it up, talking to her breasts more than her face.

She giggled, again, in the most shrill and annoying bird-twitter Sam had ever heard. He slumped back, arms crossed over his chest and mouth tight in a grit of teeth. He could barely focus on what they were saying, let alone whether it had any importance to the werewolf. Probably not. Dean had probably forgotten all about their business here, now he was faced with a slutty girl.

Tina was talking about god knows what, waving her arms around and 'accidentally' touching Dean's leg. Dean was looking at her with dark eyes and a white smile. Sam was surprised they didn't just start going at it on the floor. It wasn't like anyone knew that he was still here. Dean had obviously found someone more interesting than him, or at least someone with a set of tits. He barely contained a snarl. _Just admit it, you're jealous_, part of his mind whispered. The other part was busy fervently denying it when he realised Dean was standing in front of him.

"C'mon, let's go." He turned to Tina again. "I'll drop by again later. Hopefully I'll find your boyfriend here next time." Dean winked and Sam thought he might punch Tina, just on principle.

As soon as they stepped outside, Dean was clutching at Sam's shoulder, fingers digging in. Sam turned in surprise, ignoring the heat of Dean's touch and focusing on his righteous anger. "What?"

"God, let's never go back there, please. That woman is crazy!"

"Well you looked like you were getting on _great_. Like a house on fire." Sam practically spat the words out.

"Did you not hear her? And she kept on fluttering her hands about, I had to duck for cover at one point!" Dean looked so genuinely panicked Sam couldn't help the smile that crept onto his face, despite his resolve not to give in.

"So why'd you keep encouraging her then?"

"Well duh. We needed to know if this was our guy."

"And?"

"Can't be him. Apparently he's been spending a lot of time on 'business trips' recently. He was supposedly in Washington last week for a conference. Playing away more like, and it sounds like she knows it too, if the invitation to stop round the next time he's spending the night elsewhere was anything to go by. Not that I'll be going anywhere near _that_." Dean shuddered a little, as if something slimy had trickled down his spine. "But anyway, he wasn't here for the full moon."

Dean looked so pleased with himself, like a little kid with a cookie. Sam let his small grin spread. He turned to the car, falling in line with Dean and sighing, trying to convince himself he was just relieved about the _case_.

Maybe Dean had laid the flirting on a little too thick. But after his 'you're so pretty' comment to Sam, he felt the urge to re-establish his heterosexual masculinity, and it just so happened that a half-naked girl willing to put her breasts on display answered the door.

Still, at least he'd managed to find out the information they needed, which had taken most of the pissiness out of Sam's attitude. He felt bad for ignoring the kid like that, but it was for the best. At least now Sam wouldn't get the wrong idea about Dean.

"So should we go and look up this other guy then? James Dale?" Sam asked as they neared the Impala. Dean opened the door, looking at Sam over the roof.

"Well it's getting pretty late. We could talk to him tomorrow, it's not like he'll go anywhere."

"Okay." Sam paused, looking unsure. "So…I'll pick up my car from your place and then meet you after school tomorrow."

"Yep." Dean swung himself into the car, purposely not looking at Sam.

"Okay."

They didn't talk on the drive back, Dean turning his music up loud.

* * *

The plan to talk to James Dale ended up being a bust. They'd taken the Impala over to the opposite side of town, following Sam's scribbled directions. The address turned out to be one of the large houses they'd walked past on their hunt the previous week. After about five minutes of knocking on the immaculate white door, a neighbour informed them that James was away for the week. It was probably a good thing, Sam thought privately. It wasn't as if they had a convincing cover story as to why they needed to talk to him, and although Dean had been all for using the same story he'd used on William's girlfriend, he doubted it would work on an investment banker.

"So what do we do now? Just wait until this guy gets back?" Dean was leaning against the side of the Impala facing Sam as he stood on the sidewalk outside James Dale's house.

"Yeah, I guess. But we really need to figure out something better to say to him."

"Like what? We just need to talk to him long enough to find out where he was last Friday. I can do that." Dean grinned, the sun on his face making his skin glow. "Or maybe he has a girl I could talk to…"

Sam hid his flinch, then blinked hard. This ridiculous jealousy had to stop. Dean was _straight_, and even if he wasn't, he wouldn't think of one of his students like that. No matter how much Sam wished for it.

"Yeah, whatever." He walked abruptly to the passenger side of the car, ignoring the look of mild surprise that passed over Dean's face. "Let's go."

Sam was slouched in the passenger seat, his face blank. Dean could tell he was pissed off about something. He glanced over at the kid repeatedly, probably more than he should. Sam either didn't notice or didn't care and kept up his staring contest with the glove compartment in front of him.

He was just about to break the painful silence, ask what was wrong or make an inappropriate comment, Dean wasn't sure which. But at that moment the shrill tone of a cell phone sounded, startling them both. Dean's hand automatically went to the pocket where he'd shoved his in haste earlier that morning, but he knew before he'd finished moving that it wasn't his. His was programmed to play an annoying hamsters-on-helium version of 'Highway To Hell'. The ringing being emitted from this cell phone was a standard buzzing that was probably the ring tone the phone had been set with when it left the store. Sam wouldn't have had the luxury of funny ring tones, and the thought made Dean strangely sad. Like _that_ was the major tragedy in Sam's life.

Sam pulled the phone from his pocket, his face draining of colour as he read the caller ID. In the same second, Sam darted a glance at Dean. It told him all he needed to know and he stepped on the brake without thinking. In hindsight, he realised it would probably have been better to keep moving rather than give Sam the opportunity he wanted to get out of the car and away from Dean's side.

Sam answered the phone as he slid from the seat and Dean had no choice but to get out of the car as well. He could only hear Sam's side of the conversation from his position on the other side of the car, but it was enough to make his jaw clench.

"Sir…"

"Not yet, sir…"

"I've been…"

"I know, but…"

"I'm sorry sir…"

"I'll try harder…yes sir…" Sam had his back to Dean, but he could see the slump of the kid's shoulders, like he was withdrawing from physical blows. Dean bit his lip hard enough to break skin.

"Sam, give me the phone." Sam turned at the command, the phone still held to his ear. He looked scared and young and it was enough to spur Dean into movement, striding around the car and holding out his hand expectantly. But it seemed Sam's father had already hung up and Sam shoved the phone back into his pocket, looking down at his feet and huddling in on himself as if _Dean_ might start hitting him.

"It-it was nothing, he just wanted to know how it was going."

"Sam, you _don't _have to put up with this." Dean said, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. Sam didn't look up.

"Can we go now? Please." Dean sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, gesturing for Sam to get back in the car.

Sam resisted the irrational urge to pull his legs up to his chest. Talking to his father again had scared him, as if the man himself might suddenly appear from thin air and start beating the hell out of him. Because he was _bad_, he wasn't doing his job. Instead he was messing around with school, with homework, with _Dean_.

He screwed his eyes shut. _No, that's not right_, he thought to himself, _I'm doing everything I can_.

"Sammy?" Dean was looking at him, his expression half repressed rage and half concern. On _his_ behalf. A warm little ball grew in his belly, thawing a fraction of the cold that blanketed his body.

"I'm sorry." Sam said before Dean could start. Dean looked away, staring out of the windscreen.

"Don't be. It's not your fault. I just…I wish you'd let me talk to him."

"What would you have said? It wouldn't have done any good, he'd just take it out on me later." Sam looked at his lap, trying to keep the quaver out of his voice. Admitting what his father did to him over and over was almost as painful as the beatings themselves.

Dean sighed. "Yeah I guess. I…I don't know what I'd have said. I just wanted to…to…I don't know what I wanted to do." He looked over again, and the pain in his eyes said more than his words.

"Thank you." Dean looked confused.

"For what?"

"For caring." Sam said, almost too softly to be heard over the sound of the engine. He turned to look out of the window before Dean could reply.

* * *

"Okay, so we go back at the weekend and talk to James Dale." Dean said, trying to find a comfortable position in the plastic booth. He'd been hesitant when Sam had suggested stopping for some food before going their separate ways, but the kid still looked pale and shaken after the call with his dad and Dean hadn't wanted to just leave him by himself.

"Yeah, but we need a better story. There's no way he'll let us in to talk to him just because you're a teacher. No offence." Sam's lips twitched, the first time he'd smiled since the phone call. Dean suddenly felt glad they hadn't gone straight home. His leg pressed against Sam's under the table as he shifted and they both jerked away from the contact.

"Okay, okay. So what do you suggest, genius?" Dean said, fighting to keep the heat showing in his face. He waved the waitress over, a middle-aged bleach blonde with lines around her mouth and a suggestive smile.

"Well I could try my dad's friend Michael, he does my dad's fake ID's. He could probably make you one that would look realistic on short notice."

"Cool." The waitress stopped in front of their table, cocking a hip to one side and beaming at Dean.

"What can I get you, honey?" Dean turned his grin on her.

"Well darlin', I think I'll have eggs and French toast with a side of bacon. And a cup of coffee, black. Sam?"

"Same." Dean glanced at the kid from the corner of his eye. Sam was slouched in the booth, staring at the patterned and greasy tabletop with dull eyes. His smile wavered a little.

"Anything else you'd like?" The waitress was still pouting at him. He turned back to face Sam.

"No thanks. That's all." She blinked.

"Okay. I'll bring it right over." She stood for a second longer, then flounced away when Dean didn't look back up at her.

Sam still didn't look at Dean, chewing idly on his lower lip in an unconscious gesture that Dean couldn't help watching.

"Hey kid, you okay there?"

"My name's _Sam_."

Dean held up his hand. "Okay, _Sam_. Are you okay?"

"Fine."

"Yeah, that's reassuring." Sam looked up at that and Dean quirked an eyebrow. "What's up?"

"Nothing. Seriously, I'm just…pissed about this guy." If Dean were the type to initiate heart-to-hearts, he would press the subject. Instead he spent a few seconds looking at Sam before nodding.

"Okay then." The waitress brought their food over, putting the plates on the table with a little more force than necessary. She didn't say a word, just turned and spun away.

They ate without looking at each other, Dean purposely ignoring the warmth of Sam's leg almost touching his under the table.


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

As always, thank you to all my reviewers, I'm glad you're all enjoying the story :) Hopefully the next chapter should be up on Friday…

Chapter 12

"Sam?" Sam looked up from his doodling at Jess's voice. They were sitting in the Friday morning Latin class going over verb conjugation, something Sam had been able to do in his sleep at age seven. Jess sat beside him, leaning over like she was looking something up in their shared textbook. "What are you doing after school tonight?" _Driving across two states to pick up a false ID for my teacher_, Sam thought to himself.

"I have to do some stuff with my dad." He whispered back to her, keeping his eyes on the textbook.

"Oh." She sounded disappointed and he squeezed his eyes shut before looking up at her reluctantly.

"Sorry. I wish I could get out of it, but he's really strict about stuff like that." She gave him a small smile.

"Don't worry about it. My parents are kinda funny about visiting family and things like that as well. I just, I was hoping you might want to go and see a movie or something? Just as friends."

Sam chewed on this inside of his mouth, wishing she hadn't asked him again. "Yeah, that'd be fun. I'll have to see if I can find any free time though."

"Okay. I'll call you later and we can arrange something." She looked somewhat appeased and turned back to the work in front of her. He let out a breath. Maybe he _should_ go out with her while he was here. It might help distract him from his steadily-growing crush on Dean.

He'd had crushes before, on girls he'd met on the road and at previous schools, and once on a guy who'd worked behind the counter at a motel he'd stayed at for two weeks in Alabama. But those had been pure fantasy on his part, constructed from daydreams in which the girls had said more that two words to him in passing or the guy had been more than simply polite to a paying customer. His first and only kiss had been after rescuing a girl from a banshee on his fifteenth birthday. She'd thrown her arms around him, pressing her body to his and kissed him full on the mouth. By the time he'd gathered enough sense to kiss her back, she was turning and running back to her house. She hadn't even looked as he'd driven away.

It was no surprise really that after all the years of isolation he'd fixate on the person who actually spent time with him, got to know him properly and maybe wanted to be his friend. But it wasn't just his emotional neediness that drew him to the older man. Dean was the most intriguing person Sam had met, like an abstract painting, all bold colours and sharp lines and hidden meanings. He'd never met anyone like Dean.

Dean, who had just walked into the room, giving him a sly wink. His breath caught in his throat and he couldn't help staring. The older man wore a dark blue suit that did interesting things as he walked and Sam dragged his eyes away from the sight of the material stretching over Dean's backside, looking blindly in the direction of the textbook. Dean was talking to his Latin teacher in low tones and Sam saw them glance in his direction through his bangs. He lowered his head even more.

"Sam Miller? Mr Winchester would like a word outside." The other students in the class turned to look at him as he clumsily stood. Beside him, Jess was watching with a slight frown.

Sam followed Dean outside into the empty corridor, his sneakers squeaking on the uncarpeted floor. Dean led him a little way away from the classroom door and then turned to face him.

"What's up?" Sam asked.

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay going to this guy tonight. Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?" Dean was looking at him with carefully disguised trepidation.

"It's fine. I'll be fine." Actually Sam wasn't too sure about that, but he wasn't about to let Dean know that. He didn't need to give his teacher cause to worry about him even more.

Jim Miller's 'friend' Michael wasn't one of the hunters Sam had spent a lot of time with over his childhood, and he was glad of it. The man was a vicious fighter and Sam had always given him a wide berth when he could help it, staying in the car when his father had stopped by his home base in Pittsburgh. The few times Sam had been forced to talk to the man himself, back before he'd hit his teens, he'd had trouble meeting the sharp black eyes, dull and lifeless like a shark's. Boy-skinny and not yet tall enough to present any kind of target to interest Michael, Sam had been overlooked more than not. But now…Sam was just hoping that the man wasn't in the mood to make him fight for the ID he needed.

More than that, the fear that Michael might happen to mention their meeting to Jim worried Sam. He was counting on his father not to need Michael's services any time soon. If he found out Sam had bought a false set of identification for Dean, then he would want to know why. And the conversation would be far from pleasant.

"Don't worry about it." Sam turned on his reassuring smile and Dean looked mostly convinced.

"Okay. Well, you'd better get back into class. Give me a call if you need anything."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, sure."

Jessica was waiting for him when he walked back into class, still wearing the little frown. "What was that about?"

"Nothing, Mr Winchester just wanted to let me know about some after-school tuition. To catch me up with the rest of the class." Sam affected an embarrassed grin. Jessica didn't look convinced.

"He seems to ask to speak to you privately a lot."

"Does he?"

"Yeah. It's weird. I mean, it's none of my business or anything, but…" She trailed off, flushing a little. "It's like he's always trying to get you alone." Inwardly Sam sighed. _I wish_.

"No, it's nothing like that. I think he's just watching out for me." At that moment the bell signalling the end of class rang and Sam gratefully turned away to pack his stuff.

* * *

Night had fallen by the time Sam pulled into the long driveway leading to Michael's old house. Michael was one of the few hunters that actually had financing behind him, having inherited a large sum from rich parents. Sam had once heard his father mention Michael's house alone was worth well over a million dollars. However, this didn't make the man any more amenable to helping fellow hunters in need. When Sam had phoned him, he'd demanded two hundred dollars in exchange for the ID. If Sam hadn't needed it so badly, and if he hadn't been afraid that any disputes would get back to his father, he would have told the man to go screw himself. As it was, Michael was the only person Sam could go to on such short notice. He hadn't told Dean about the cost of his false ID.

Parking his Mustang in the most convenient place for a quick getaway, Sam made his way to the door. The house was red brick with ivy climbing up the front. If Sam hadn't known whose house it was he might have thought it was an attractive place to live. The drive and front lawn were beautifully maintained by a small army of gardeners and the double garage doors housed three cars; two state of the art black trucks Michael used for his hunting trips, kitted out with all the latest weaponry and electrical equipment, and a gunmetal grey Aston Martin Vanquish. Michael had an obsession with James Bond, believing the money and valuable things made him suave and sophisticated like his hero.

Sam hesitated at the door and then pressed hard on the bell. The sound of melodious chimes rang inside.

Thirty seconds later, enough time for Sam to consider just turning around and going back to Elmstead, the door swung open and Michael stood in front of him. The man had a barrel chest, wide enough to fill the doorway. His dark hair was swiped back from his face, revealing a sloped brow and those black eyes that sent a chill through Sam. He didn't show any outward reaction to the man.

"Sam Miller. Wasn't sure if you'd actually come without your daddy holding your leash." The man smiled in a mean little grimace.

"Have you got the ID?" Sam refused to rise to the bait.

"Yeah. You got my money?" Sam pulled an envelope out of his inside jacket pocket, flashing it at the man and tucking it securely back. "Great. I guess we can do business then." He stood to the side of the door, making an exaggerated sweeping wave. "Come on in."

Sam followed Michael through hallways of expensive artwork that the man probably only kept because he'd been told it was valuable. He was led into a small dully-lit room in the middle of the house filled with computers and copiers. The humming pulse emitting from all the machines made the hair on the back of Sam's neck rise.

"So, you got a photo?" Sam grudgingly handed over the passport-sized photo Dean had given to him for the ID. Michael looked at it for a second, a smarmy grin on his face. Sam wanted to snatch the picture back. "Who's this then? He's pretty. Bet he'd look good on his knees." His twisted grin grew at Sam's barely veiled bristling.

"Just do the job."

"Touched a nerve, did I? What, he your boyfriend?" He fingered the photo and Sam clenched his fists. "Always figured you were a little cocksucker. Something your daddy taught you?"

Before knew he was doing it, Sam was pulling out the two-shooter pistol he'd stowed in the back of his jeans and pointing it at the big man sitting in front of him. Michael didn't look the slightest bit afraid; his arrogant expression widening into a toothy smile.

"Get on with it." Sam said brusquely.

The man stood, making a deliberate show of turning his back on Sam and his pistol. Sam was practically shaking with anger, and Dean would have probably smacked him to find out that it was all on the behalf of his teacher. Let the guy imply whatever he wanted about Sam, but the subject of _Dean_ was sacred territory.

Michael took his time, fiddling about with his computers until Sam was ready to explode. When he finally turned around, Sam held out a hand for the ID, his jaw clenched tight enough to hurt.

"Money first." The man was dead serious now the issue was his payment. Sam pulled the envelope out of his pocket and held it out. Michael took it, and then twitched the ID out of Sam's reach suddenly.

"What…give it to me." Sam demanded, trying not to sound like a child being taunted by a bully.

"Hmmm, well maybe I don't want to give it to you now. Maybe I want to keep this pretty picture." Michael waved it in front of Sam. "Or maybe you should try begging for it, little boy."

Sam held the pistol up again, aiming at Michael's face. "_Give it to me._"

The man made a show of scratching his chin as if in contemplation. "No. I think I want you begging."

The hand holding the pistol wavered slightly. Sam didn't want to have to shoot anyone, especially not someone his father knew.

"I don't hear you begging, boy." Michael took a step forward, opening his grinning mouth to taunt Sam again. Sam didn't give him a chance, swapping the pistol into his bad hand with a wince and bringing his fist up to punch the big man squarely on the temple. Michael staggered back, all amusement gone from his face. "You little fucker. I'm gonna get you good for that."

Sam took a step back, out of range of the other man's reach and bringing up the gun again. "Give me what I came here for and I'll leave quietly." Michael ignored him, lunging toward him bodily. Sam sidestepped quickly and the man stumbled into a desk like an enraged bull. In the small space, Sam's agility gave him the advantage over Michael's brute force. He stuck the pistol back in his jeans. No matter how much Michael pissed him off Sam didn't want to be responsible for shooting him, accidentally or not. The bulky man unleashed a burst of wild punches, catching Sam in the centre of his chest. He tripped backward, gasping as the air was knocked out of him. Hitting another of the desks lining the walls, Sam knocked a computer monitor to the floor.

"Damn you, that was expensive!" Michael swung another fist at Sam, which he dodged. He swivelled around to keep the door at his back. The ID was still firmly grasped in Michael's big hand.

Sam took a darting look to either side, looking for something he could use as a weapon. The desks were all pushed snugly against the walls and most of the electrical equipment was too big to lift. Grabbing a heavy-looking wooden chair that looked out of place in the modern grey room, he hefted it up over his head. He pushed aside the sudden flaming burn in his bad hand and the wheeze as his body still tried to compensate for the air that was punched out of his lungs. Michael jumped at him and he swung the chair, smashing it across the back of the man's wide bull neck. The big man went down, sprawling on the floor with an agonised moan. Sam leant down to where the ID was loosely held, prying it out of Michael's fingers then turning tail and running back to his car before the man could get up and come after him.

* * *

Keeping his foot down on the accelerator, Sam tore down the dark road that led back to Elmstead, still trying to catch his breath. His chest throbbed with the delayed burn and he could see the image of Michael lumbering up from the floor and grabbing the nearest phone to call Jim Miller. And he would, after what Sam did to him. Of that Sam had no doubt.

He began to gasp again at the thought, panic depriving him of oxygen. Driving in the state he was in probably wasn't his best idea ever, especially with the tight black roads and their hairpin bends. But he had to get back, he had to be there when his father arrived or the punishment would be far worse. Sam felt ill thinking about the lies he'd have to tell, both to his father and Dean. If his father found out about Dean, that Sam cared about him…But he'd already lied to Dean once. He didn't want to do it again, not if it would end up driving Dean away.

Pulling the car over with a wrench of the wheel, Sam stamped hard on the brake. A rough squeal of tires on asphalt and smoky dust trails and the car shuddered to a halt, throwing Sam forward in the seat. He remained in that position for a second, burying his face in the wheel of his car and waiting for his breath to even out. His hand felt like it was being pierced by red-hot needles and he held it close to his stomach. He had felt something rip inside when he lifted that damn chair and now even the relatively small pressure of steering the car almost too painful. He thought about the hospital again. _It's not that bad_, he told himself, _you can live with it_.

After a few minutes, he carefully pulled into the road again, keeping his mind free of conflicting thoughts.

* * *

"So, didya get it?" Dean hated to admit it, but falling back into the life of lies and deceit still held a certain charm. And when Sam climbed into the passenger seat of the Impala and held out a black leather case in one hand, he felt the old excitement buzz at his nerves. He flipped it open, admiring the realistic-looking State Police badge and card. The name claimed he was Deputy Henry Goldbloom. He grinned across at Sam, suddenly eager to start. "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's get going."

Dean noted distantly that Sam seemed kind of withdrawn today as he started up the car and pulled away from the curb outside his apartment building, but he quickly put it down to the drive he'd undertaken last night. The kid looked sleep-deprived, his body jittery from too much coffee and his face milky pale with dark circles under his eyes. He held his left hand tenderly in his lap, the bandages grubby. Dean was about to ask if it was healing okay when Sam spoke suddenly.

"I'll wait in the car while you talk to the guy." Dean's eyes flickered over to meet Sam's briefly.

"What? Don't you want to be in on this?"

"Yeah, but it'll look weird if a cop turned up with a sixteen year old." Dean looked over at the kid again, slumped in the seat.

"I guess. I shouldn't be long anyway, it's not like there'll be any girls there for me to _chat_ to." Dean grinned at Sam, expecting the kid to react to his comment. But Sam didn't even raise his head. The grin slowly slipped off Dean's face. "Sam? Is everything okay?"

Sam did look up at Dean's tentative question, flashing an over-bright smile at him that just as quickly disappeared, like turning off a light switch. "Yeah, everything's great."

Dean looked at him for a moment longer, feeling uncertainty stirring in the pit of his stomach. But they were approaching the house now. Whatever it was would have to wait. Sam would be right there in his car, no one could hurt him as long as Dean was around.

He walked up the driveway with his head cocked to the side, keeping the Impala in view.

* * *

"Mr James Dale?" The man who answered the door looked to be in his early thirties, a few crow's feet lining the corners of his eyes. Dean considered himself to be tall, but this man was at least three inches taller, with a heavier stature than Dean himself. It would almost be intimidating if Dean wasn't so sure of himself.

Now he was actually on the doorstep, all the old lines came back to him and he stepped forward smoothly, flashing his false ID at the man. "I'm Deputy Goldbloom from the State Police Department. I'm just here to ask a few questions regarding your whereabouts the Friday before last." The man examined the badge briefly, apparently finding it satisfactory.

"Uh, yeah sure. What's this about?" The man looked tense, Dean noted, subtly shifting his weight from foot to foot. He stared the man directly in the eye.

"I'm afraid I can't really discuss that with you, Mr Dale. But we'd just like to know where you were that Friday, between around ten in the evening and four the following morning?"

The man glanced around, taking his time answering. "Well, I believe I spent the night at home."

"Can anyone confirm that?" Dean asked, pretending to take notes in the black notebook Sam had handed him along with the police badge.

"Uh, no, I was alone all night. I had a migraine so I went to bed early. I didn't wake up until late the next day."

"Were you out the previous night at all?" He frowned at Dean's question, rubbing at the top of his head with one hand.

"Actually, I didn't feel so good that night either, or the night before that. It was strange, I must've had a bug or something. I pretty much blacked out until the morning, both nights." Dean snapped his notebook closed.

"Well, that's all, Mr Dale. If we have any further enquiries we'll be in contact. Thank you for your time." James Dale looked relieved, giving Dean a nod and closing the door. Dean stood on the porch of the house for a second, considering the man's story before returning to the car. His earlier excitement dissipated like he'd been soaked in cold water.

"Well?" Sam stuck his head out the passenger window.

"I think it's him. And I don't think he knows what's going on, either. But he knows there's _something_ not right with him." Dean shook his head. It was bizarre, knowing something about a person that they didn't even know themselves. It gave him a vaguely dirty feeling.

Sam took a deep breath. "Oh."

Dean walked around to the other side of the car, sliding in the driver's seat. He sat stiffly for a second before turning to face Sam. "I know I should be glad we found the guy, but I kinda wish we hadn't now." Sam met his eyes.

"Yeah. He's just an innocent guy. It's not his fault."

"So what do we do about him?"

Sam looked down at his lap. "I don't know."

Dean shut the music off as they drove back to his apartment. He wanted to be able to think clearly, except there was nothing _clear _about the situation. One way or the other they were going to have to kill a man. _Take care of it_, they'd been saying, and at the time Dean hadn't thought of it in any other terms.

"We don't know for sure that it's him yet." Sam said quietly, the same thing obviously playing on his mind as well.

"No. But it probably is." Sam looked across at Dean for a long second as if he was preparing to argue and then slumped down in the seat.

"Yeah. You're right. There's only one way to be sure and that's to wait for the full moon."

"But what if he gets away from us again? What if he hurts someone else?" Dean said, harsher than he'd meant to.

"We don't have any other choice, unless you want to go and kill the guy now just to be safe!"

"I'm not _saying_ that, I'm just saying…I don't know what I'm saying." Dean let out a sigh. "Can't we just talk to the guy? Tell him what we know and, I don't know, get him to chain himself up over full moons or something?"

Sam looked at Dean with sad eyes. "Dean, he's not gonna believe us."

"We've got to _try_, otherwise no matter what, come full moon someone else dies." He could see Sam from the corner of his eye, rubbing at his head as if he had a headache.

"Dean…"

"Sammy, we have to at least try." He said in a low voice. Sam huffed then nodded resignedly.

"Okay. But the next full moon is in less than two weeks. This has to be taken care of, one way or the other." Sam sounded so much like John Winchester that Dean couldn't help the involuntary shiver that stripped down his spine.

The scenery was passing by the windows outside in a blur of faded colours, growing darker as night began to fall. Dean let himself be distracted for a while by the hum of the road, the streaks of streetlights and headlights flashing on either side of him. Sam was a silent presence on the seat beside him, the tentative feel of him oddly relaxing to Dean.

As they pulled up outside Dean's apartment Sam was shifting restlessly on the seat. Cutting off the ignition Dean prepared to step out of the car but Sam put a hand out, laying it gently on Dean's arm.

"Dean, there's something else I need to tell you." Dean frowned and closed the car door, turning to Sam. The kid was looking at the floor like he was waiting to be chastised. He had a sinking feeling that he wasn't going to like what Sam had to say and for a second he envisioned an as-yet faceless father beating Sam senseless while he could do nothing to help. Pushing the unwanted picture away, he tried to keep his voice light.

"Okay, what's up?" Sam looked up at him with big eyes.

"Look, I…didn't tell you everything about this guy I got the ID from last night. He's…he's not a nice guy." Dean felt his gut clench and his voice turned hard.

"What did he do? Sam, what did he do to you?"

"No, it wasn't like…that. He was messing me around, wouldn't give it to me, so I started a fight and took it." He relaxed fractionally, because Sam _could_ take care of himself when he wanted to. But the kid still looked jumpy and Dean waited for the rest of the story.

"I think he's gonna call my dad." It came out in a rush and then Sam was looking up at him with liquid eyes and a kicked-puppy face. "And if my dad hears about what I did, then he'll want to know who the ID was for."

Rage like magma spilled over into Dean's chest and he clamped his jaw shut before he could start cursing his own stupidity for letting Sam get the ID. And yet he couldn't help the tiny drops of anticipation, the feeling that _finally_ he'll get to meet Sam's father face to face.

"Dean?" Sam was watching him with a worried look, biting on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I got you into this."

"Don't be. I said I was gonna help you and I will." He turned to face the kid, eyes dark. "I'm not going to let him hurt you again Sam."


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

I know I said next update was on Friday but it was sitting around on my computer all done, so I thought you guys should have it early ;) Thank you to everyone who reads and reviews this, let me know what you think, I like to make sure that I'm doing it right :) Next update will probably be Monday…

Chapter 13

After listening to Dean's impassioned speech in the car earlier, the kid had still been all set to drive back to his apartment by himself and stay there alone. Apparently the concept of having someone to watch his back was alien to Sam. Dean had talked him into staying at his apartment for a while, objectively to discuss tactics for dealing with the Dale situation. _The Dale Situation_ was how Dean had begun referring to the werewolf in his head. It sounded clean-cut and clinical as if they were detached from the circumstances completely, observers rather than possible killers of an innocent man.

And there was the other problem, the problem of Sam's father prowling around the edges of Dean's mind like dark clouds on the horizon of a clear and sunny sky. If he was in Iowa then it should take at least three days for him to reappear in Elmstead, but Dean wasn't exactly expecting an announcement in the local paper when he returned. He had to be careful, make sure Sam was safe and out of harm's way. Which sounded faintly ridiculous when Dean considered the harm Sam himself could inflict, if he chose to do so. The kid was a living weapon, honed and sharpened like one of those blades he wielded so artfully. But Sam would never hurt his father, no matter what the man did to him. A weapon would never turn against its maker.

"So what the hell do we do about James Dale?" Dean asked, juggling a beer bottle, a can of Pepsi and a half-eaten family size bag of Cheetos in his arms. Sam stood up from his perch on the very edge of the sofa cushion, holding out both hands to help. Dean passed him the can of Pepsi and the Cheetos.

"It's not James Dale we should be worried about. It's the thing inside him that we need to destroy." Sam said bluntly. Dean gripped the neck of his bottle of beer tightly and flopped heavily onto the sofa beside Sam.

"There has to be some other way. C'mon, there _has _to be."

"There's no cure after the bite, Dean." Sam sounded contrite. "There's nothing we can do, except stop it from infecting more people."

"You mean kill him." Dean stared at Sam. "How can you be so calm about it, Sam? We're talking about someone's life here!"

"Yeah, and there's a whole load of other people who would be in danger if that thing isn't dead by the full moon. I don't like it, but we have no other choices." Sam held the unopened can of Pepsi in his good hand, the bandaged one hanging limply between his knees. Without thinking Dean reached over and popped the tab for him.

"You said we could talk to him, explain what's going on."

"Yeah but Dean, what's the likelihood of him actually _believing_ us? C'mon man, we have no proof. Unless he's incredibly open-minded and trusting then we're gonna be thrown out on our asses." Dean rubbed a hand through his hair, scrubbing viciously at the back of his neck.

"There's no way we can prove it's him until the full moon?"

"No. He's human now, silver won't cause any reaction. And there's no demon inside of him, so holy water won't have any effect either. The only thing that will cause the change is the moon." Dean digested Sam's words, absentmindedly sipping his beer and leaning back on his sofa. The stubborn part of his mind kept insisting there was something he'd missed, something important. But the confusion in his head was like a Rubik cube, no matter which way he turned the coloured pieces, it wouldn't come together. He let out a long breath and slammed the beer bottle down on the coffee table harder than he'd meant to.

"Christ. Okay, you're right."

"We can try talking to him, but all I'm saying is we need to be prepared to have to do this the hard way." Sam was still watching him through slanted cat's eyes, the apology clear to see. "And…there are always the other victims to consider."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," Sam shot Dean a careful look, "that the wolf inside that man has killed a lot of innocent people. If we tell Dale what he is and he believes us, then he'll eventually realise what he's done under its influence."

"Oh." Dean picked idly at the open bag of Cheetos spilling onto the coffee table. Suddenly he didn't feel so hungry anymore.

* * *

After their discussion of James Dale, Dean had pretty much given up on trying to convince Sam they could talk the man into locking himself up. They sat next to each other awkwardly, not talking. Finally Dean had turned on the TV as a distraction. It was getting late, the windows showing the dark night pressing against the glass outside but Sam didn't mention leaving and Dean didn't ask him to go. A glance in Sam's direction showed the reason Sam wasn't thinking about going home.

Sam had somehow managed to fall asleep, curled up next to Dean on the sofa with his endlessly long legs pulled up under him. _I should wake him up. One time sleeping in my apartment was bad enough, twice is calling the cops and getting arrested bad. _But Sam looked so peaceful for once, childlike in sleep as he'd probably never been whilst awake with his white bandaged hand tucked up neatly under his cheek like a paw.

He didn't want to let the kid out of his sight; that much he could freely admit to himself. The TV was showing a late night repeat of some game involving a ball and lots of running men being played out on the screen in front of him, but for the life of him Dean couldn't have said what the score was, what teams were playing, what _sport_ it was.

Sam was right about Dale. As much as Dean hated to admit it, they couldn't count on the man even hearing them out, let alone _trusting_ them. And even if Dale did take that enormous leap of faith, then what was to be done about it? There was no cure that would remove the wolf part of him. The best he could do was to resign himself to being chained up for three nights each month, which wasn't a foolproof plan in itself. If somehow the wolf got free and bit someone else…

Sam twitched in his sleep, making a snuffling noise. His forehead creased as he tried to flex his bandaged hand under his cheek. Dean reached out and gently pulled the injured appendage out from under the weight of Sam's head and the frown lines disappeared, smoothing out into even skin. Sam's long sleeved tee shirt had ruched up at the back, showing an expanse of unblemished skin that looked pale and creamy in the dull flickering light of the TV. Dean blinked and looked away fast.

The open bag of Cheetos was empty on the coffee table and Dean considered getting up and opening more. While he was in the kitchen he could grab another beer from the refrigerator as well. It might help him sort through the tangles of problems in his head.

An explosion of noise from the TV made Dean start. Someone had scored on one of the teams. Dean blinked stupidly at the screen for a second and then turned the volume down on whatever game it was so he wouldn't disturb Sam, ignoring the urgent voice that was telling him to _wake the kid the hell up and get him out of the apartment now_.He drowned the voice's protests with a fresh bottle of beer and spent the rest of the game glancing over to check up on Sam with increasing frequency.

* * *

Sam was in bed. In _his father's _bed. The darkness of the room seemed to invade every pore of his body as if it was being drawn in like a magnet. The still and silent night echoed in his ears, the nothingness loud in its absence of sound. From the bed, he could just make out the form of the ancient chest of drawers at the foot of the bed and the closed door leading into the living space. The lines were vague, like someone had half-sketched them in grey on black paper. Sam wanted to sleep, tried, but his eyes wouldn't stay closed. His eyelids drifted open against his will to look over the miniature landscape of valleys and mountains created by the bed sheets covering his body. They flattened and reformed as he shifted positions.

He tried to keep still, to let his body drop into sleep but the gradients of black light kept catching his eye. He needed to sleep, _now_. It was important. He needed to be rested. But no matter how much he tried to urge himself into darkness his mind refused to obey him and shut down.

Frustration forced his body stiff as wood, as if sleep could be pulled into it by willpower alone. Only his open eyes moved, swivelling to take in the darkness that now felt thick and heavy like treacle. He blinked three times in quick succession.

His cell phone rang. It wasn't with him in the room.

He'd left it on charge somewhere. Sam tried to think where but the damn tune kept playing, louder and louder, distracting him from his thoughts as cleanly as a child distracted by a shiny object. His dad was calling and Sam needed to answer the phone, but _now_ his body was limp and unresponsive, his eyes were slipping closed and he_ couldn't_ sleep now, he needed to get up, but his dad was so far away…

One of the grey lines etched along the far wall moved. Then another, and another, until the entire wall was a mass of writhing shadow-lines curlicueing into a new form. They twisted like papers blown in a breeze, like snakes twining together. Sam still couldn't gather enough energy into his limbs to move.

The shades became a whole, mating into one body that laboriously broke free of the wall. The parody of a man created from shadows drew closer and Sam forced his jaws apart a crack, but not enough, not enough to scream.

The figure stood at the foot of the bed, lent forward impossibly until Sam could see the shape of a face, a mouth, hanging in the air inches from his face. Sam tried to move, desperately wishing his lax muscles awake. His throat was tight like the night was sticking in his mouth and slowly suffocating him. The figure above him spoke in his fathers voice.

"I_ will_ kill you boy. One day soon, I _will_ kill you."

Sam jerked into wakefulness, the sudden movement throwing him to the floor with a bruising thud. He lay on his back looking around frantically for his father, his cell phone, and saw Dean leaning over him, worry lining his forehead.

"Sam?" Sam panted in breaths like he'd been drowning, noting in a distant part of his mind that he was in Dean's living room, not the apartment, not his father's bedroom. Dean slid off the sofa to kneel between his splayed legs, looking anxious. He reached a hand out to Sam then hesitated, the hand hanging in the air between them like an unspoken sentence.

Sam ignored Dean and tried to regain focus on the world around him. His father hadn't called. Jim Miller wasn't here yet. But he could still taste the blackness in the back of his mouth, a ghostly ectoplasmic soot that dried his tongue. He tried to swallow but instead gulped down a huge gasp of air which made his eyes run and he coughed. The taste lingered and got stronger even though he knew it wasn't really there, just an after-effect of his nightmare.

"Sam, what's wrong? What happened?" Dean's voice held a touch of panic even though he was clearly trying to conceal it. Sam met his eyes, wanted to reassure him, but _oh God the taste_, thick like tar and clogging his throat and he had to wipe it away, get rid of it, get it_ out _any way he could.

Before his mind could catch up he hooked his bad hand around the back of Dean's neck and pulled him down, forcing their mouths together. Dean lost his balance and fell tumbling forward onto Sam, pressing him to the floor. For a second he was still and cold like a statue against Sam's desperate kiss and Sam flicked the tip of his tongue against Dean's lips, asking, _begging _for a response. And Dean suddenly came to life, pressing back against Sam and opening up around him. His tongue slid against Sam's, tasting like sweet beer and heat. His forearms came to rest either side of Sam's head, his long body weighing down and keeping Sam in place.

Sam had bitten his lip in his sleep and the pressure of Dean's kiss brought blood to mingle with saliva and smear messily around both of their mouths. Sam kept his eyes closed, allowing Dean to exorcise the dream from his memory with tongue and wet lips. He gripped the back of Dean's neck tightly, his abused hand throbbing in time to his pounding heartbeat. The good hand came up to Dean's side, grasping a handful of Dean's tee shirt and screwing it between his fingers like it was a lifeline.

The press of Dean's body pinning him to the floor made him feel bizarrely safe and protected. One of Dean's hands came up to brush the hair back off his forehead, a tender feather-light touch at odds with the harsh press of mouths working against one another. It felt like Dean was trying to consume him, overwhelm his brain with near-painful open-mouthed kisses and Sam curved his neck upwards to allow better access. And _God_, it was Dean, kissing him in a way Sam had been desperately trying not to think about or want since he'd first seen the man fighting off the werewolf. The imaginary taste was gone, chased away by the warm wet heat of him all around Sam.

Sam was kissing him. _Sam_ was kissing him, and Dean couldn't think clearly. His head was buzzing from the alcohol he'd consumed. He wanted to pause, take a time out to stop and collect all his thoughts that had been scattered like dropped playing cards in a game of fifty-two pick-up. But there was no _time_, all he could do was hold on to the demanding and desperate kid beneath him. The kid who seemed to have a direct line to Dean's mind and was using it with deadly expertise to wipe out all higher thought processes until Dean was a mess of _fuck yes _and _more_.

He would regret it later, he thought abstractly. He had no excuse for taking advantage of Sam while he was obviously in a fragile state of mind, even if he was a little drunk. But Christ, the kid could kiss. It was all Dean could do to just hold on, like riding a wild mustang in a rodeo show.

His hand had drifted up to stroke Sam's hair gently, petting him as if he was a cat and Sam's whole body was arching into Dean's touch. Dean could taste blood like copper pennies in the corners of his mouth. The huffs of their breathing sounded loud, loud enough to overpower the low noise coming from the TV. He wanted to open his eyes and look at Sam, see his expression as they kissed, but he didn't dare. If he looked then it would make this _real_, and Dean was terrified of his own reaction.

Except Sam was pulling away, removing the sweet taste of his tongue and Dean tried to chase it. He didn't want this to end, he wanted it to go on and on so neither of them had to _talk_, and he didn't have to think about it or see the look on Sam's face when he realised that Dean, the one person he'd trusted, had taken advantage of him like this. But Sam stopped kissing him and lay motionless beneath Dean, his hands still holding him close. Their faces were inches apart, hot breaths moist and sticky brushing the other's cheekbones in irregular gasps. Dean kept his eyes firmly closed, thunder in his ears as his mind finally caught up with him in a burst of _what the fuck were you thinking?_

"I'm sorry." Sam whispered. Dean looked down at Sam beneath him, still for a moment then scrambling to his feet, away from the kid. Sam's eyes were huge and fluid, warm jade green. He looked rumpled and soft like he'd just gotten out of bed. Smudges of blood around his mouth made his lips appear even more swollen, as if he had been eating overripe cherries. "I'm really sorry."

Dean made no move to stop him as Sam pushed himself off the floor, practically running to the front door and bolting out into the night.


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

Wow, I'm so glad y'all enjoyed the last chapter and thank you so much for all your reviews, they make me feel all warm inside ;) Hope you guys like this chapter, next update should be on Thursday…

Chapter 14

Dean woke up on Wednesday morning with a head that felt stuffed full of wire wool. His eyes screamed in pain as dry lids were scraped open and the sunlight made everything fiery white for a second. He let out an aching groan. Next to him on the sofa lay an empty bottle of Jim Beam.

He couldn't remember picking it up last night. Hell, he could barely remember deciding to go out to get it, and that was before he'd started drinking. Dean slumped ungracefully back onto the sofa, raising a shaking hand to try and still his brain sloshing around in his heavy skull. It didn't help.

It had been three days since he'd seen Sam, since the kid had kissed him like he was dying. Dean had freaked out completely after Sam left, imagining scenarios in which the police start banging down his door to arrest him and drag him off to prison with his hands cuffed behind his back. He couldn't believe the kid had kissed him like that. No, wait, he couldn't believe he'd actually kissed the kid _back_. He should have stopped drinking after the third beer. Then maybe he would have had a little self control left, and maybe he could have ended things before they'd even begun. Then Sam wouldn't be thinking he was a perverted freak.

Except Dean really _was_ a perverted freak who'd had to spend half an hour in the bathroom after Sam left trying to will away a pretty goddamn persistent erection. He'd stood in a freezing shower long enough for his lips to turn blue before the thing subsided. Dean almost groaned out loud thinking about it. It was discomfiting enough to let himself get so out of hand that he would actually _make out _with a sixteen year old _boy_, but to sprout wood just from a kiss? The last and only time that had ever happened before was when he was thirteen and Lisa Stevens had introduced him to the joys of frenching in the playground after school. Although Lisa had nothing on Sam's technique, a tiny voice in Dean's head whispered.

He hadn't slept at all that night, thoughts of what would happen at school the next day playing in his head. And the thoughts he blocked out as soon as they started, the slow-motion replays in vivid Technicolor.

Dean needn't have worried. Sam wasn't in his classes on Monday or Tuesday, and when Dean checked the parking lot the cherry red Mustang was nowhere in sight.

Except Sam _not_ being in school presented Dean with a whole different problem, and he wanted to curl in a ball and hide from the unfairness of it all. Because there was still Sam's father, and no matter what happened between them Dean wasn't going to let Sam suffer at the man's hands again. Dean had made a promise, both to Sam and to himself.

But Sam hadn't called once, even after Dean screwed up what little courage he did have and left a voicemail message on the kid's phone telling him to forget the whole thing, pretend nothing happened, just please _call him_.

He'd phoned Sam again repeatedly last night, made bold and stupid by the alcohol running through his system, but the damn phone just rang and rang and it was driving Dean slowly insane. His mind tortured him with graphic images of Sam, his father beating him half to death. And Dean wasn't there to stop it.

Why had he never asked Sam for his address? Not once in their short but intense relationship had Sam ever given any indication of the area of town his apartment was in. Dean had been tempted to break into the school and search the computer database for the kid's details. Except he was drunk and that would have led to him being arrested for sure. So instead Dean cursed at himself, tracked a path from one end of his apartment to the other, threw things, dialled Sam's number so many times his thumb ached from pressing the button and finally settled on drinking the rest of the Jim Beam and a six pack of beer he'd found in his refrigerator. Which just led to him repeating his previous actions with an added alcohol buzz to fuel his violence until he finally passed out on the sofa.

* * *

Sam had spent most of the previous two days driving around town, in theory checking out background on James Dale. He'd almost run over two people and a cat.

He'd kissed his teacher. He'd kissed _Dean_. Sam couldn't quite follow the convoluted thought processes that had led him to do _that_. Not that he hadn't wanted to, thought about it in detail, but it was a fantasy, something that would never ever happen because Dean was clearly straight and as manly as a man could be. And now Dean probably hated him. Sam couldn't face seeing him, seeing his face.

He'd listened to Dean's awkward message telling him to just forget the whole thing. He wished to hell that he _could_ forget it. But the sweet warm flavour of Dean's mouth wasn't fading in his memory and the gentle touches still burned against his skin.

Sam drove into school on Wednesday, steeled to face the consequences of his actions. A small part of him considered just turning the car around and leaving, leaving Dean, the werewolf, Elmstead. Avoiding all the problems he didn't know how to deal with and going back to his father, who was predictable if nothing else. The beatings were bad, but there was almost reassurance in knowing what to expect from the man.

Dean's class was the last of the day and Sam was hoping to stay away from the other man until then. Hopefully Dean would ignore him, let him shrink into the background and pretend he was invisible for the hour and then allow him to slink out at the end of the day without comment.

* * *

If anything, being at school and not knowing whether or not Sam was there was worse than being at home tormenting himself with possibilities. Dean was barely restraining the urge to start pacing again. Only the fact that he was in front of a class full of students kept him in check and he surveyed the faces looking up at him from the rows of desks. Various expressions of unease were on each of the faces and Dean noted in the back of his mind that he'd just chewed a girl out for absolutely no reason other than the fact that she was there and Sam was not.

_Sam's not even _supposed_ to be in this class_, Dean reminded himself. _Just because I haven't seen him around doesn't mean he's not here in school somewhere. _He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and trying to unwind the tight coils of muscles knotting up his body.

He had forgotten what it felt like, fear like this. The fear that someone he cared about could get hurt, could even die, and he wouldn't know. He thought of his father and the hunts John went on whether Dean came with him or not. He hadn't heard from John in over eight years but he knew _someone_ would find him and tell him if something serious happened to the man. Dean hadn't hidden himself away, his name was right there for anyone who wanted to look. But he wouldn't _know_ when it happened, he probably wouldn't be told for days. Dean hadn't let himself think about it in years, concentrating on other things whenever his father drifted into his thoughts until he had trained himself out of it completely.

Dean sat heavily in the chair in front of his desk, watching the kids in front of him silently scribbling away. He just wanted to see Sam and make sure he hadn't been hurt. Because it was _his _fault, he'd made the kid run, and if he'd been beaten up Dean would be the one responsible for it as surely as if he'd hit Sam himself.

Violently standing again, his chair pitching back with a sharp squeak, Dean announced he was going outside for a minute before striding out of the classroom and down the hall to the school's reception area. A blonde girl, luckily not Chrissie, sat at the desk.

"Hi, what can I do for you, Mr Winchester?" She fluttered eyelashes at him but he took no notice.

"I need Sam Miller's timetable, I need to know what class he has right now." She nodded at him uncertainly and he thought maybe he was being a little intimidating

"Uh, okay, just a second." She tapped at the computer in front of her with long manicured nails. "Sam Miller…he has Math right now, with Mr Rawlinson…" Dean was practically running down the hall before she finished speaking.

Mr Rawlinson's room was on the other side of the school and by the time Dean arrived, the bell was sounding for lunch. Students were beginning to pour out of doors, filling the hallways. Dean shoved his way through them until someone bounced squarely off his chest and knocked him sideways into the wall. He looked up, intent on ripping a new one out of whoever pushed him, and saw Sam.

Sam looked perfectly normal, no bruises or wounds that Dean could see and the absolute relief at finding him unhurt made him collapse back against the wall, forgetting everything but the fact that Sam was _alright_. "Sam! Are you okay? Where the hell have you been?"

Sam's eyes flicked away to the blonde girl standing on the other side of the corridor, looking at them both with something like suspicion.

"I'm fine. Uh, I'll talk to you later, okay?" Sam didn't meet his eyes, stepping away from Dean and quickly disappearing in the crowd of people lining the corridors. Dean stayed where he was, his limbs feeling weak. Leaning his head back against the wall, he closed his eyes. The hangover he'd been ignoring until now began scratching at his temples.

* * *

Sam slipped into Dean's classroom at the end of lunch, apparently having managed to drop the blonde somewhere along the way. He shut the door carefully behind him and then waited, his bangs tumbled into his eyes and shoulders pulled in to make himself look smaller. Dean stood, feeling oddly formal, looking at Sam through half-closed eyes. It distorted his view and blurred the scene as if it had been painted in runny watercolour.

"Okay." Dean said, breathing out the word on a deep exhale. "I guess we should talk about what happened the other night."

Sam looked up, his gaze meeting Dean's briefly and then skittering away to rest on the floor a few feet left of Dean. His hands were pressed deep in his pockets and it must have rubbed against the bruising. "Sir, I…I don't know what to say."

"Sam, look, I'm supposed to be your teacher, I'm supposed to be the responsible one." _And instead I got drunk_.Dean pushed his own hands in his pockets and stared blankly at Sam's chest. "It shouldn't have happened. I took advantage, and I'm sorry." In his head Dean pleaded with Sam to accept his apology and move on.

"What? It wasn't your fault!"

"Sam…"

"It was me, I had a dream and…I didn't know what I was doing." Sam's face was flushed. "I'm sorry, please. Can…can you just forget about it? Please?"

Dean opened his mouth to tell Sam to stop _blaming_ himself for everything. Except forgetting about it sounded pretty good to him right then, in fact it sounded fucking _awesome_. So for the fifty-thousandth time in his life he took the coward's way out, feeling simultaneously relieved and disgusted with himself.

"Why don't we just pretend it never happened? Okay kid?"

"Thank you sir." And Sam was shining big green eyes at him, expressing absurd gratefulness that made Dean want to cry.

The bell signalling the end of lunch rang before Dean could say anything else, breaking the tense atmosphere and making them both jump.

"I guess I'll see you in class then sir? I'm…I'm really sorry." Sam was out of the door and gone before Dean could say anything else.

* * *

After sitting through Dean's class, the older man barely able to even look in his direction without turning red and quickly looking away, Sam had miserably accepted that despite what Dean had said the kiss wasn't forgotten. He'd screwed everything up with his stupid crush. Dean wouldn't be able to look him in the eye again without seeing what a freak he was. Thinking about it made his chest ache and his throat feel raw as if he'd been screaming for hours. Sam had crept out of the classroom at the first ring of the bell signalling the end of class, ignoring Jessica's confused questions and retreating to the safety of his car. Driving was the one thing he could do in solitude and not have to _think_.

He had almost reached the apartment when his cell phone rang.

Immediately Sam pulled over and braked jerkily, nearly hitting the curb. He pulled the phone out of his pocket with a shaky hand.

The screen was flashing brightly, his father waiting impatiently for an answer. He let his head fall back against the headrest, staring at the roof of the car for long seconds. The phone continued to ring. If he didn't answer it, his dad would kill him. If he did answer it, his dad would probably be calling to tell him he was going to kill him. He pressed the call connect button and slowly raised the phone to his ear.

"Sir." His voice was barely a whisper. Across the street in front of him Sam could see the town's only playground, children fresh from school scrambling to the top of the brightly coloured metal climbing frame. They laughed unselfconsciously as only children can do, caught up in their own games.

"I received a call from Michael on Friday night." Jim Miller's even tone set Sam's heart stuttering against his rib cage. His father wasn't drunk. He knew from experience that on the rare occasion Jim took the time to sober up for a punishment meant Sam was going to come out of it with some serious problems. "Now I've been trying to think, why would you be stealing false identification for someone else?"

"It-it was for a friend, sir."

"A friend. And who is this _friend_ that passes himself off as a cop?"

"He's no one, sir, just some guy I met at school. He-he wanted it as a favour." Sam tried to calm his breathing and talk smoothly, deceive his father like he deceived everyone else. _Just pretend it's not him. Pretend it's someone you don't know. _

"Really, now. And how did he know you had the means to get false IDs?"

"I…I was just joking around. It slipped out. I didn't say anything else, I swear." His father didn't say anything, the misleadingly gentle sound of his breathing on the other end of the call gripping Sam's heart in ice, chilling his veins until cold sweat started itching his back and neck. His left hand lay palm up in his lap, the dirty bandage supporting the damaged bones and muscles. The pain radiating from it had been a steady accompaniment to his mental anguish for the last three days and Sam was starting to think he may have broken something during his fight with Michael.

"I don't believe you. I can tell when you lie to me boy, _I_ was the one that taught you how. Now why don't you tell me who this guy is and why you gave him a cop ID, and maybe when I get back I'll only break one of your arms." _You might've already broken my hand_, Sam thought before he could control himself. He stiffened as if his father could read the impertinent thought through the phone line. But his dad didn't say anything, his silence making Sam panic and trip over his own half-formed excuses. He couldn't collect himself to work up a good cover and he _knew _his father was just waiting for him to break. _But I won't. I won't tell him, not about Dean. I don't care if he breaks every bone in my body twice over._

"I'm waiting." Sam gritted his teeth and gripped the phone tightly enough to send protesting prickles dancing up the nerves of his fingers.

"No sir."

"What?" His father's voice was low, disbelieving.

"No, I won't tell you. Sir." Sam was distantly surprised to feel the rush of adrenaline pacing his body as if he was on a hunt. The hum of blood in his head got louder. And outside his car, people walked along the sidewalks, laughing and pushing strollers and drinking paper cups of coffee from the Starbucks on the corner of the street. A guy in a silver Mercedes drove past, slowing and waving to a pretty blonde woman on the street holding the hand of a small boy. The boy was holding an ice cream cone, mint-chocolate ice cream painting his face and dripping off his upturned nose. Sam felt like he was invisible, a black spot that none of these happy smiling people could see.

"Who is this man?" His father enunciated each word.

"He's not important. I'm doing the job you told me to, isn't that what you wanted?"

"Don't tell me what I want, boy. What I _want_ is for you to tell me who this man is and what he knows." The strain was beginning to show in Jim Miller's voice, growls curling around his words. "Now, are you going to tell me or do I have to force it out of you?"

"He doesn't know anything."

"Who the _hell_ do you think you are, boy? Who the hell do you think you are to lie to me, after everything you've already cost me?" Sam's head fell forward.

"I'm sorry sir, I…"

"You're sorry?You _kill your_ _mother_, and you're sorry? You little bitch, you tell me what I want to know or I'll make you know what _sorry_ is!"

"I…" He screwed his eyes up, everything urging him to tell his dad. Maybe if he explained it, Jim Miller would understand, maybe he wouldn't hurt him so badly… _And maybe he'd hurt Dean instead_. "I won't tell you." Sam snapped the phone shut before he could hear his father's reply.

A group of four women with several young children on their way home from the playground walked past Sam's parked car. The children were laughing and pushing each other, running ahead as their mothers called them back, telling them not to play in the road. Sam watched them in the rear-view mirror until they reached the end of the street, rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

He picked up his cell phone again, flicked through the phone book until he came to Dean's name. He hesitated, his finger hovering over the green call button. He wanted to call, wanted to hear Dean's voice more than anything. But the other man didn't need any more of Sam's problems to deal with. He'd already dumped so much shit into Dean's lap and the older man hadn't asked for any of it. He had no right to ask this of Dean, not after what he'd done.

Sam turned on the engine and carefully pulled away from the curb, heading back to the apartment to await his father's punishment.


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

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Wow thank you so much for all your reviews, you guys are all awesome! Here is the next chapter, hope y'all enjoy, next update should be on Sunday providing I can get all my other less important work out of the way first ;)

Chapter 15

Dean called in sick early on Thursday morning. A mild hangover tapped at his temples and empty beer bottles were sticky on his coffee table, but he felt proud that he actually made it into the bedroom before passing out this time. He showered away the grimy morning-after feeling and pulled on clean jeans and a slightly creased dark purple shirt, rolling the sleeves around his forearms.

Sam had said they could try talking to James Dale and Dean intended on convincing the man before anyone had to kill him. The information Sam had managed to dig up on him told them that he worked from home most days and made occasional business trips to meet clients. Dean was counting on today being one of the days Dale was home.

He picked up his cell phone, staring at it for a second. He wanted to call Sam and ask him to come along, but after the way the kid had sprinted out of the classroom the day before, practically leaving a cartoon dust outline of his body behind, Dean wasn't so sure the kid wanted to be around him. And Dean really couldn't blame him. _He _didn't want to be around himself. He'd let Sam shoulder all the responsibility for that damn kiss, knowing full well he was as much at fault as Sam was, if not more.

Dean definitely wasn't gay. And he was pretty sure he wasn't bisexual either, he'd had offers from some attractive men in college but he'd never thought once about actually accepting any of them. Not that he'd ever had a problem with men who did that sort of thing, but in his mind the male form just couldn't compare to the soft feminine curves and warm heat of a woman. Except, he finally admitted to himself with a hand rubbing over his face as if the truth was written there for everyone to read, in Sam's case apparently it did. He might have understood it if Sam's body had been petite and slender, but nothing about the rangy length and hard muscles even remotely resembled a woman's.

So he was Sam-sexual. He liked a _lot_ of women, and Sam. Which was slightly disconcerting to realise after twenty-six years of life. But there was definitely an attraction there; Dean had conceded reluctantly in the classroom yesterday while discreetly taking glances at the kid. Sam had been slouched dispiritedly in his seat with his head down, soft feathers of hair just brushing the taut curve of his neck. The sight had made Dean swallow compulsively and turn away, only to find his gaze drifting back again and again.

Letting out a heavy breath, Dean pushed away the memory and shoved his cell phone into the front pocket of his jeans. He could do this one without Sam holding his hand.

Dean pulled up outside James Dale's spacious house. He sat in the Impala for a minute, holding his fake cop badge in one hand. Making a decision, he stuffed it back into the glove compartment and stepped out, slamming the door behind him and walking up the long paved driveway.

James Dale answered the door in grey sweatpants and a white tee shirt with a large damp patch in a V on his chest. His face was flushed and shiny and a strong aroma of moist sweat accompanied the man. Dean stared for a second. _Yeah, I'm definitely not gay. _Blinking and quickly flicking his gaze upwards to meet Dale's eyes, Dean spread a large white smile on his face.

"Hi, Mr Dale? Uh, we met the other day?"

The man's brows creased slightly. "Yeah, I remember. Can I help you, Deputy?"

"Well, actually I have something I need to discuss with you, Mr Dale. Can I come in?"

"Sure, I guess. I was just working out." Dale stepped aside, holding the door with one hand and beckoning Dean inward with the other.

Dean followed the big man into his living room, glancing around. The room was larger than his whole apartment, two expensive-looking black leather sofas taking up half of the room. A huge widescreen plasma TV hung on the wall above the decorative fireplace and a home entertainment centre sat on a study mahogany table that matched the other pieces of furniture in the room. The walls were cream coloured and held no pictures. It was obvious the only occupant of the house was male, the entire room picked out from a page of a furniture catalogue.

Dean sat on one of the sofas, the leather squeaking under him as he shifted uncomfortably. Dale was looking at him expectantly from the other sofa. "Well, Deputy? How can I help you?"

Now he was there, Dean had no idea how to begin. He scratched at the back of his neck and tried to look confidant. "Actually, I'm hoping to help you. Uh, I don't really know how to say this but…" He looked around the room, hoping the right words would come. "You told me that you were ill for three nights two weeks ago."

"I did." Dale was looking at Dean in confusion, head tilted to one side. "I don't really understand what that has to do with anything though?"

"Was there anything…unusual about those three days?"

Dale was quiet for a second, then shook his head. "No, not that I can recall. What's this about?"

"Did you find yourself blacking out suddenly for the whole night and waking up early in the morning?"

"Well yes, but I was sick, I'd taken a lot of medication." Dale was frowning at Dean, leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed over his chest. "I don't see what that has to do with anything, Deputy."

Dean let out a loud breath and tried on a trustworthy expression. He wished Sam were with him, that innocent and earnest face could convince people to hand over their life savings without question. Dean's was better at convincing girls to lose their panties. "Look, I'm sure you've heard about the recent attacks in Elmstead. That little girl that was killed."

Dale nodded, still looking uncertain. "Of course. But I don't see what that has to do with me. Am I accused of anything?"

"No, uh, not…as such." Dean rubbed at his neck again. "Okay, look, this is gonna sound completely insane, but please, just hear me out."

"Look, I think you'd better explain what you're doing here, Deputy. If I'm a suspect then take me down to the station." Dale's uncertain expression disappeared into a frown.

"You've been having these mysterious illnesses for a while now, and I think if you compare the dates you'll find that they all occur during the nights of the full moon." Dean said. "You black out the whole night, then wake up the next morning with no memory of anything. Maybe you're not in the same place you fell asleep. Sound familiar at all?"

The frown on James Dale's face deepened, lining his forehead and tensing his mouth. "I don't know what you're talking about, but I think you'd better leave now." He stood, abruptly gesturing for Dean to do the same. He got to his feet, holding a hand out. If he couldn't convince Dale he was telling the truth then he might as well shoot him now. A rush of desperate adrenaline flooded his nerves.

"No, wait! Something-something attacked you, didn't it? A huge black animal. It bit you during the full moon nearly a year ago. And ever since then, you've never felt quite normal. Right?" Dale went very still, staring at Dean with an imperceptible expression. His jaw tightened.

"Who the hell are you?"

"My name is Dean Winchester, I can help you."

Dale took a step toward him. "Well Dean Winchester, I think you'd better get the fuck out of my house before I call the _actual_ police."

* * *

Sam was on his knees. His hands were linked behind his neck, the bruised left hand clenched in the right. He'd removed the bandage and the rolling constant ache from the grip of his good hand made him feel faintly nauseous in the pit of his stomach. He knelt facing the wall in the apartment, the line of his stiffly held body just millimetres from touching the surface.

Jim Miller had returned to Elmstead late in the night. Sam had cleaned the apartment in preparation, polishing every last thing until the rooms smelt of soap and pine cleaner. He had removed the bandage on his hand. Jim didn't like his son's injuries to be covered up.

He'd been balancing precariously on his kneecaps for nearly four hours now, ever since his father had walked into the apartment and told him in a low voice that he had one chance to redeem himself. He could tell Jim the name of the man he'd given the ID to and he would receive a beating for his insolence. Or he could hold out and wait for his father to force the name from him through 'punishment'.

The thin carpeted floor did nothing to protect his legs and the time he'd spent in the position had taken what meagre padding his muscles provided. All his weight rested on the nerve-filled skin trapped between bone and concrete.

Sam was to hold his body still until his father said otherwise. If he moved, wavered from the punishment position or allowed his body to touch the wall at all, then his father would start the beating. As long as he could keep himself upright and tense, he was safe. He let out a quivering breath, softly so his father wouldn't hear it from his seat on the sofa.

The TV was next to Sam, the speakers loud in his ears. He couldn't concentrate on the words being said. All his focus was narrowed to keeping his body straight and parallel to the wall. He'd been sweating continuously from the strain for hours, and now a steady stream flowed from his hairline into his eyes, dripping off his nose. His shirt was soaked through. Rivulets dribbled down his spine, his chest, between the crease of his buttocks. The blood in his body had pooled in his legs and his feet were numb. Every inch of muscle pounded with tension and the ache when he finally let himself go would be even more unbearable than the pain it was causing him to stay still. _Dean_. He repeated the name to himself, forcefully conjuring images of the man in his mind. It was getting harder to picture him.

* * *

Dean had driven the Impala away from James Dale's house, parking up a few blocks away. He slumped back in the seat, feeling the soft padded leather holding his body like a caress. _Well, that went well_. He'd expected to get the reaction he did, but in the back of his mind the hope that Dale would hear him out had compelled him to push the subject. But apparently Dale wasn't eager to let news of his abnormality spread, even to people who could help. Dean sighed heavily. The man _had _to have known what he was talking about. Maybe once he had time to think it over he would calm down and be more amenable to hearing what Dean had to say.

Dean sat up and started the car. The low rumbling growl made him smile, lightening his heart a little. His baby always made him feel better. Stepping on the gas, Dean pulled away from the curb and headed home. He'd grab some lunch and then come back to talk to Mr Dale again.

* * *

Dean considered calling Sam as he drove back to James Dale's house. The kid's presence might help, especially if he used those big imploring eyes on the man. Dale would probably take one look and all his distrust would dissolve, lapping up everything they had to say.

He rounded the last corner, pulling the car up a few houses away from Dale's. The sun was bright in the street, blinding him as he stepped out. Sam was probably in school, and the fourth period lessons had already started. He couldn't very well call him in the middle of class and demand he skip out. Letting out a shaky sigh, Dean stood in the street. He could do this on his own.

The house Dale lived in looked more foreboding the second time around. The red brick seemed to tower above him and the neatly lined flowerbeds made him feel untidy and unprofessional. He momentarily wished he'd worn a suit and then felt stupid. It wasn't like he was being _interviewed_.

Reaching the porch, Dean took another deep breath. The hanging baskets of pink and purple flowers around his head made him feel closed in and claustrophobic. What guy bought hanging baskets anyway? A guy that could afford them, his mind answered. Dale was apparently very good at his job, if the silver Porsche sitting on his driveway was anything to go by. He pressed the bell, listening to the ringing within the house. Dean's own apartment, although expensive enough to rent, was nothing compared to this house.

Heavy footsteps grew louder as the occupant came to the door. It swung open forcefully and Dale appeared in front of him, changed out of the damp workout clothes and wearing a grey suit with a white shirt and navy blue tie. His eyes were dark and furious.

"You again. I don't wanna hear your crap, you hear me? How dare you come back to my house. Get the fuck off my property!" Apparently time hadn't done anything to calm James Dale down and make him hear reason.

"Wait, Mr Dale! I know this is hard to take, but…"

"You're insane! If you don't leave right now, I'm calling the cops!"

"Mr Dale, please, I'm trying to help you, I know what's happening to you…" Dale raised a clenched fist as if to hit out and Dean stepped back. "Okay, look, I'm going. Just please, think about what I said. My name's Dean Winchester, once you've had time…"

"Get the fuck off my property!" Dale repeated, taking a step back inside his house. The door slammed in Dean's face. Dean rubbed a hand over his eyes, a sick feeling in his gut.

As he drove away from the house, he saw James Dale watching him from the living room window.

* * *

Sam's stomach groaned and cramped up. He hadn't eaten since last night, and the exertion of staying statue still was taking its toll on his body. His throat was dry enough to make audible clicks every time he tried to swallow.

Jim Miller let out a snort of laughter in response to something on the TV. The man hadn't touched a drink since he arrived back. Sam had left two six-packs of beer in the refrigerator in the hope that Jim might decide to get drunk. The alcohol-fuelled punishments were sloppy punches and violence. When his father took the time to get sober, the torture was well-planned and always inventive. The mental torment scared him more than the threat of pain.

His vision had begun to dance a while ago. The only thing he could see from his crouch was the grubby grey of the wall, tiny spots of ingrained dirt huge in his close up view. Now the spots grew and shrank with each laboured breath he took, shifting positions and swirling about in front of his eyes. His head ached and spun.

Squeezing his possibly-broken hand abruptly brought everything back into sharp focus. He managed to stifle his gasp and breathed as quietly as he could, praying that Jim Miller hadn't noticed the twitch. Everything behind him was quiet and he clenched his teeth, trying to hold back the frightened tears that threatened to spill.

Another burst of laughter and he breathed out heavily in relief. Jim hadn't seen his slight movement. He was safe for a little while longer.

* * *

Dean stopped off on the way back to his apartment to buy more beer. It was unlikely Dale would be calling him any time soon. He stumbled into his apartment, clumsy even before he'd begun drinking. God, Sam was going to be so disappointed in him. The kid had told him Dale wouldn't listen. Dean snorted on an unfunny laugh. He was going to have to kill a man, and the main concern in his head was Sam's _disappointment_.

Flicking on the light switch, Dean stood for a second in the doorway to his kitchen. The cleaning Sam had given it so many weeks ago had been a waste of time. Empty bottles and dirty plates lined the countertops and surfaces, spilled tacky patches dripping over the edges and onto the floor. He felt suddenly choked that he'd ruined all Sam's hard work.

He rummaged around in the mess, searching for a bottle opener. One of the dishes went flying, hitting the floor with a loud smash and shattering into pieces. Dean stared at it for a second, the noise freezing him in place. He thought of Sam's father, drinking constantly and using it as an excuse to beat Sam senseless. The army of empty beer bottles stared up at him in accusation.

Dean turned and left the kitchen in a hurry, the unopened beer left sitting on the counter. He dropped ungracefully onto the sofa and let his head fall forward into his hands. _Christ. What the fuck is wrong with me?_ As if in answer, his cell phone began to ring, 'Welcome To The Jungle' squeaking out in a falsetto. Dean dug into his pocket frantically. Sam wanted to talk to him, Sam _needed _him…

The white glowing screen showed an unknown number. Dean frowned and pressed the call answer button. "Hello?"

"Dean. This is Principal Markenham." Dean started, the prim voice of the Principal sounding wrong and out of place in his apartment.

"Principal Markenham. Hi. Uh, if this is about why I'm not in school today, I really haven't been feeling good…"

She cut him off abruptly. "Please don't lie to me, Mr Winchester. I've just received a phone call regarding you, and I'd like you to come in and discuss it. Within the next two hours."

"What? What do you mean?" Dean tried to think of who might be calling the Principal to complain about him, quickly giving up. Any number of parents could have been responsible. _Or Sam_, his mind whispered to him, _maybe Sam finally got sick of your pathetic lies and excuses_.

"I've received a call from a good friend of mine, a Mr James Dale. I believe you know him." Dean went cold.

"Look, I can explain…"

"Like I said, Mr Winchester, I'd rather discuss this with you face to face. Please come to my office within the next two hours."

"Are you…firing me?" Dean asked, screwing his eyes shut as if that would block out the words. The Principal sighed.

"Mr Winchester, your position within this school is tenuous at the best of times. Now it is hanging by a thread. I would rather _not _ask that you leave, but if it is not in the best interests of my students then I may have to. Unless you can convince me that you actually _want_ your job and the responsibilities it entails, then we have some serious problems. This is your _final_ chance. Now, will you be attending this meeting?"

"Yes, ma'am." Dean let his body fall back against the sofa cushions as the Principal hung up. The beer behind him suddenly seemed like the answer to all his problems.

* * *

The sweat itched his nose and chin. It fell in a continuous stream from his face, puddling on his chest to soak the already dripping tee shirt Sam wore. His arms were white on either side of his head and if he strained his eyes he could just see the points of his elbows. The feeling had run from them about an hour ago and his head felt absurdly weighted on his slender neck. His entire body was shaking uncontrollably. It had started as a mild twitch running through his veins that he had quickly suppressed with gritted teeth and tense muscles, but now his strength was failing. He'd almost fallen forward several times, the wall looking more and more appealing. If he could just lean, maybe rest the tip of his nose…

His father had turned the TV off, sitting in silence behind him. Sam could feel his strong gaze boring into his back. He couldn't last much longer, and then the real punishment would begin. And his father knew it.

He almost toppled, catching himself at the last minute.

"Naughty boy. You wanted this; now take it like a man." Jim's voice came from a few inches behind his ear. He jerked, stamping down on the instinct that told him to move away from it, from _him_. Clenching his jaw tightly, he didn't respond, using what little strength he had left to keep himself straight and vertical.

The spots on the wall grew larger. He blinked hard, trying to focus. They swelled his vision, faded grey fuzz with black centres. Calling him forward. The tears he'd held back now ran unchecked from the corners of his eyes.

"You can't last much longer, boy." Sam squeezed at his bad hand again but the pain didn't come, didn't centre him. He squeezed harder, digging his nails into the abused flesh in desperation. The grey spots spread across his eyes, overwhelming him. He felt himself fall sideways, his muscles finally giving out. The grey turned to black, which turned to nothing.

Jim Miller stood above the spasming form of his only son, watching expressionlessly as the thin and sweat-soaked boy shook convulsively as if he'd been wired up to an electro-shock machine. His eyes rolled back in his head and Jim could tell the moment he passed into unconsciousness, the pain creasing his face falling away into smoothness. His body still twitched. Jim turned to the sofa and sat down sedately, picking up Sam's discarded hoody from the arm of the sofa. He stuck a hand the pocket and pulled out the silver cell phone, throwing the hoody carelessly onto the table in front of him. With his gaze still firmly on the helplessly shaking boy, he flicked to the received calls list and pressed the green button, listening to the number being dialled.

* * *

Dean sat in the Principal's office by himself. Principal Markenham was just getting coffee, the secretary had told him. Wait inside and don't touch anything.

Diplomas and certificates for teaching awards hung on the wall beside the desk. The office was painted in simple cream with dull brown wood, exactly as Dean would expect a Principal's office to be decorated. The desk in front of him held several files, the top one bearing his name. He'd dressed in his good black Armani suit, the one he only wore for important occasions. He'd combed his hair back and polished his shoes. Couldn't hurt to at least try and make a good impression. Not at this point. He resisted the urge to lean forward, throw his head into his hands. God, how could he have been so stupid? Giving the guy his real name? It was a small town, newly moved-in or not James Dale most probably knew people, had friends here.

The beer still sat at his counter in the kitchen, unopened. The temptation to drink himself into oblivion had been almost irresistible, but the image of Sam's father hurting Sam, beating the crap out of him because of it had stilled Dean's hand. Anything that hurt Sam was bad. And turning up to a meeting drunk and smelling of alcohol and then attempting to beg for his job wouldn't have been the brightest idea he'd ever had.

He was actually _nervous_, Dean realised. The job had never meant anything to him, had been a way to earn money and pretend to fit in, nothing more. But without it, what did he have? Everyone would see him for the coward he was. His stomach ached and he thought maybe he shouldn't have eaten the out of date meatball sub for lunch that he'd found in the back of his refrigerator.

He jerked back as if something stung him when the sudden noise of his cell phone sounded, loud and raucous in the small room. He pulled it out of his pocket, glancing at the door to check for the Principal. It definitely wouldn't give a good impression to be found talking on his cell phone. He looked down, intending to turn it off before he saw the name displayed on the screen. _Sam_. Without a second thought he answered it, bringing it to his ear.

"Sam? What's wrong, are you okay?" There was silence on the other end and Dean started to panic. "Sammy?"

Dean's spine stiffened as the calm deep voice, most definitely not Sam's, spoke finally. "Dean. Are you the man my son's been buying fake ID's for?"


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

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Thank you all so much for all your reviews, they inspire me to write faster ;) I'm glad you guys liked the last chapter, I know, I'm so mean to poor Sammy! Hope you all like this one, the next update should be on Wednesday…

Chapter 16

Sam came around slowly, every inch of his body throbbing. It felt as if he'd fallen down several flights of stairs and then been run over repeatedly. Blinking back blurry tears, he twisted his head to search for his father. Jim was seated on the sofa, looking at him with a deceptively cool expression.

"Finally woken up, have you?" His limbs were twitching uncontrollably. His skin had broken out in goose-bumps, soaked-sweat clothes clinging in clumps to his body. "Good. Your friend Dean should be joining us soon."

"What?" Ice-cold teeth bit into Sam's belly. "Dean…"

"I thought you'd like the chance to say goodbye to him." His father stood, leisurely walking to Sam's side. Sam tried uselessly to push himself up, to gather his shaky legs under him. His kneecaps were burning like hot coals were being pressed to them. He made it halfway up and then fell, accidentally catching himself with his bruised hand. A yelp escaped his mouth before he could clamp down on it and his father's face tightened. But no kick followed, no punishment for making noise. Sam blinked rapidly in confusion. One of his father's strictest rules was no noise. Nothing that would draw attention to them. Which Sam privately thought was pretty pointless since any neighbours they had invariably saw him with marks on his body the next day.

How had his father found out about Dean? And why was Dean coming here? Sam had been very careful not to let any information about where he lived slip out. Dean couldn't know where the apartment was for just this reason. If he'd turned up while his father was here… Except that nightmare situation was about to occur if his father was to be believed. And Sam was aching so badly he didn't think he could find the strength to lift his head from the floor, let alone stop his father hurting Dean.

His gaze fell on his cell phone, lying harmlessly on the coffee table. He'd left it in the pocket of his hoody. His eyes slid closed. Christ, he'd practically given his father all he needed to find Dean on a silver platter, and now he was too weak to do anything to protect Dean. Which had probably been his father's plan all along.

* * *

Dean stamped his foot down on the gas pedal, driving through the red light at a crossing without pausing. A sick mixture of white hot anger and disabling panic churned around in his stomach, nervous spiders biting at his insides.

Sam father had called him. Dean had demanded to be allowed to talk to Sam, to know he was okay. The man on the end of the line had laughed sharply, not bothering with a reply. He'd given Dean an address and told him to come immediately, hanging up on Dean's furious swearing. Dean had tried calling back but was put straight through to voicemail without even a ring tone.

Realising suddenly that he was still sat in Principal Markenham's office waiting to discuss the future of his job, Dean had closed his eyes briefly and cursed the universe. Then he had shoved the chair back and bolted from the room, nearly knocking the surprised Principal flying when he encountered her in the hall. Her cries echoed down the hallway after him.

The Impala flew down the streets, responding instantly to Dean's abrupt steering. Sam's dad had told him to come to the east side of the town and as Dean sped past it he caught glimpses of the less well-off people living in Elmstead. The houses were all alike, grey fronted and cramped together. There were tiny patches of green in front of each house that apparently counted as a lawn.

Turning left where Sam's dad had told him to, Dean slowed the car. Sure enough, Sam's red Mustang was parked outside a concrete building with rows of peeling green doors leading on to the street and a metal fire escape climbing to the second floor. He pulled in behind it, coming to a jerky halt.

Sam's father had told him to come to number twenty-six. Dean stripped off his suit jacket and tie and tossed them onto the back seat, stepping out of the car to survey the surroundings. Number twenty-six was directly in front of him, the number painted inexpertly on the door in thick black paint. He took a step toward it, feeling uneasy. His gut told him to bring a gun, a knife, any kind of weapon. But the voice on his cell phone had explicitly forbidden him from bringing anything. He wanted to talk, or so he told Dean, and Dean didn't believe a word of it. But if he pulled a gun on the guy and the guy had one as well, it most likely wouldn't be Dean he would be aiming for. He had Sam, and Dean took a deep breath and prepared to do whatever it took to save him.

He knocked on the door and was surprised when it opened immediately. The man on the other side was slightly smaller than him, wirier in build. But he held the same authorative air that Dean remembered John Winchester having, a sense that any order given must be obeyed. His hair was greying and his eyes had a feral gleam to them. "You must be Dean." His voice held a faint mocking tone and he stepped away from the door, gesturing with a nod of his head for Dean to step inside. "Come on in."

"Where's Sam?" Dean turned as soon as the door was closed, glaring at the man. He smiled, a cruel pulling of lips, and nodded again toward an open doorway leading out of the dark and musty-smelling hall. He took a hesitant step inside, unsure of what he might find.

What he saw was a dirty brown sofa in the centre of the room, sagging in the middle and stained on the arms. Stuffing was sticking out along the back through rips and cigarette-burn holes. An uneven coffee table, scarred and stained on top, held neatly arranged piles of papers. There was a sink in one corner, cramped cabinets and a tiny refrigerator surrounding it. There was one door leading into what must have been the only bedroom at the back of the room, and Dean wondered momentarily where Sam slept when his father was at home with him. Then he turned slightly and saw Sam and his breath caught in his throat.

The kid was half-sitting, half-slouching against a wall, his legs splayed in front of him limply, as if disconnected from the rest of his body. He was drenched, his hair sodden and flat against his forehead. At first Dean thought he'd been standing out in the rain with his clothes on before it registered that the moisture was _sweat_. His gaze lingered and he noticed minute shudders running through the length of Sam's body, as if he was having a mild seizure.

"Sammy! Christ, are you alright? What did he do?" Dean was by his side in an instant, crouching and reaching out a hand. Sam looked up at him, his eyes red and sore.

"Dean…you shouldn't be here." Dean tentatively touched Sam's clammy cheek, running a gentle thumb along the cheekbone.

"What happened?"

"It's nothing, Dean. Go, please." Sam murmured, pleading with him. Dean felt ill listening to the broken whisper. He turned to face Sam's father, who stood leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest and an expression of disinterest on his face.

"What the fuck did you do to him?"

"What he wanted me to do. I gave him an easier option, but he preferred we deal with it like this." The man walked into the room, coming to stand a few feet in front of Dean. "Now, I'd like to know exactly what my _son_," he spat the word out like it tasted bad, "has told you."

Dean stood to look at him directly, his jaw clenching. "Sam told me exactly what you do to him." He ignored Sam's cracked protest and continued. "How you beat the crap out of him! How fucking _dare _you, he's your son!"

"And he deserves everything he gets. Don't you, boy?" Dean turned to look at Sam, shivering on the floor. His eyes were downcast and he didn't reply. "Did you hear me?" Sam's father said roughly.

"Yes sir."

"You deserve this."

Sam didn't look up. "Yes sir." It came out as a whisper. Dean looked back at the other man.

"You bastard. Sam hasn't done a thing wrong and you know it! Stop using him as an excuse for your own failure!" Sam's father stared at him, his eyes growing dark.

"Who the hell are you to tell me how to treat my own kid!" He took a step toward Dean, a fist coming up. "What the hell do you know about it?"

Dean stepped forward the rest of the way, using his extra height to look down at the man. "I'm taking Sam and we're leaving. You try to stop me and I'll kill you."

Sam's father looked at him coolly for a second, assessing him. Before Dean could react, the man brought up a curled fist and punched him. Dean stumbled back, catching himself before he fell. Sparks of light glittered in his vision for a second and he shook them away, his jaw pulsing with the sudden shock of pain. He pulled himself up to retaliate, his hands clenching.

"Please. Dean, please." Sam's rasping whisper stopped him and he turned to look at Sam. The kid was vainly trying to pull himself to his feet, one hand holding onto the wall for support.

"Sam, this can't go on. You know this isn't right."

Sam didn't look at him, instead turning his pleading gaze on his father. "Dad. I'll-I'll do what you want, just please. Don't…"

"Don't you ever ask me for anything, boy! You'll do as you're told!" The man took a step in Sam's direction and Dean moved in front of the kid. He met Dean's burning gaze with one of his own. "Get out of my way."

"No." He took another swing at Dean, but this time Dean was ready for it and sidestepped, bringing his own fist up to hit the man squarely on the nose. He fell back with a pained yell, his hand cupping his nose. A splatter of red stained the greasy shirt Sam's father wore. Dean felt a sweeping kind of grim satisfaction in knowing he'd inflicted it. One hit, for the thousands Sam had taken over the years. He could quite happily batter the man to death. The blood was pounding in his ears and he heard no objections from his conscience.

He took a step forward, reached out and pulled the man back onto his feet with a clenched fist in his shirt. The other fist hit the man's face with the energy of a sprung pistol trigger. Sam's father made a groaning noise and sagged in his grasp, wriggling like a caught fish. Dean was bringing his arm back for a third punch when a weak hand touched his elbow.

"Dean…please. He's my dad." Sam had somehow managed to stumble up, his face white and sickly. Tears ran unheeded down his cheeks. Dean wanted to put his arms around the kid and hold him close, take Sam's weight as his own. The grip on Sam's father's shirt loosened. "Please, just let him go."

"Sammy, he hurt you." Dean dropped his arms to his sides and turned to face Sam. "I can't…I can't let him get away with that. Look what he's done to you."

Sam's head dropped. "I know." The cold hard click next to his ear froze Dean in place. Sam looked up, his eyes wide.

"That's really sweet, boys." Sam's father said, pushing the muzzle of the automatic pistol into Dean's temple. "Sam, unless you want your _friend's_ blood on your hands to add to the blood of your mother, then I suggest you get your stuff. We're going to Iowa."

Sam stared at Dean, despair leeching all the colour from his skin. Dean had no words, nothing to say to Sam. He desperately wanted to tell Sam to stand up to his father, forget Dean. Except Sam would never do it, would never risk Dean's life like that, and Dean couldn't protect him if he was dead.

"Boy, did you hear me? I said get your stuff!" Sam's father said, voice raising. "Now! Or I shoot!"

Sam took a step back from Dean, looking utterly wretched. His head slid forward. "Yes sir."

"Sammy…" Dean began. The pistol clipped him sharply behind the ear, a sudden hot pain like a cigarette burn. Sam met his eyes briefly, apologies and futile pleas and sadness all conveyed in the second of contact. Then he turned, using the sofa to support himself as he slowly gathered up his hoody and the papers from the coffee table, stuffing them into a half-full duffel by the far wall. After fastening the bag with quivering fingers, Sam turned to face his father.

"Let Dean go now. _Please_, sir." The man didn't say anything, but after a second Dean the icy touch of the gun was removed from his temple. He looked around, seeing Sam's father still pointing the gun in his direction as he stepped toward Sam. Dean's muscles tensed ready to lunge at the man, but as if he read the thoughts from his head, Sam met his eyes. Two steps and the kid was standing between Dean and his father, the gun pointed at his own chest and neither of them able to touch the other without going through Sam.

"Sammy. Don't do this." Dean's voice was low and broken, shamelessly begging. Sam just looked at him, his eyes shining brilliant green. His dry lips parted slightly as if he wanted to say something, but instead his gaze fell to the floor and he turned to his father. The older man looked at Dean with an expression of foul triumph, a black smirk twisting his face. The gun was shoved into the back of his pants, the man no longer concerned with his own protection. Sam would follow his father's orders without question and they both knew it.

Sam's father turned to the door, striding out without looking back. "C'mon, boy. You have some lessons to learn." He paused by the side of the coffee table, then leaned over and knocked Sam's cell phone to the floor. A hard stamp and it was reduced to splinters of plastic and metal on the worn out carpet.

Dean held a hand out to Sam but the kid stepped out of his reach, tears of longing and regret in his eyes. "I'm sorry Dean. I have to."

Sam walked away from Dean and out of the door, and Dean felt like his rib cage had been pulled apart with a sudden rough crack and his internal organs wrenched from his chest.


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

Thank you for all your reviews, I'm so glad y'all are liking this story :) And I have to apologise for all the hurt!Sammy, I had no idea when I started this that I was going to beat him up so much! Unfortunately Jim turned into a bit of a psycho… Rest assured though, it is all necessary to the story, I'm not just being sadistic… Next update should be Saturday/Sunday, depending on how happy I am with it, it's being a bitch at the moment…

Chapter 17

The rain beating against the Mustang's windscreen counted out a tattoo that echoed restlessly in Sam's mind. It had been a week since he'd left Elmstead, walked away from his responsibility to kill the werewolf on his father's orders. Jim had led him to a dirty little roadside motel on the outskirts of Iowa, hardly allowing any respite. Apparently part of Sam's punishment was to try and stay awake whilst driving for three days straight. He could imagine his father ignoring his own tiredness, his sadistic anger burning hot enough to keep him alert.

Once they'd arrived, Jim had dragged him into the one-bed room by the collar and kicked the shit out of him.

The job in Iowa had turned out to be a poltergeist attached to an adolescent girl suffering from a bullying problem. Sam could sympathise. He'd performed the exorcism a few days ago and the grateful family had insisted he stay for dinner with them as thanks. After eating what was most probably going to be the best meal he'd get in a while, the girl had shyly handed him a plate of cookies she'd made and kissed him on the cheek. It had been the first time Sam had smiled since Dean.

Thinking of his former teacher made Sam's chest feel hollow and sore. Everything around him was secondary and the poltergeist had sensed his pain as soon as he'd stepped into the house, revealing itself with a flurry of smashed china. A piece had come within a whisper of cutting his throat, and for a split second Sam wished it had. Dean's _face _as Sam had walked away…

After completing the job, Sam had returned to his father's side and they had hit the road again, following another lead. Jim led them to another motel and Sam had sat up all night in watchful tension in case Jim woke up and decided to take out more of his aggressions. The man seemed to think that after Sam's disobedience and, even worse, his defiance, he now had free reign to beat the hell out of Sam whether Sam did anything to provoke it or not. Jim had been drinking continuously since taking Sam from Elmstead as if to make up for the time he'd been sober. The stench of spilled alcohol in the air made Sam want to throw up.

He'd slipped out before his father woke up, driving aimlessly with the window open and the rain spattering in. His left hand was unbandaged, the bruises only slightly faded. The pain it caused blended in with the other, newer pains, until they were indistinguishable from one another.

The early morning air was dull but smelt clean and fresh like just-laundered clothes. Tonight was the first night of the full moon. And their current motel happened to be only hours from Elmstead. Sam stared blankly out across the barren landscape of grey road and empty field, trying not to _think_.

* * *

Dean hadn't slept properly in a week. His cell phone sat silently on the counter in front of him, mocking. Sam no longer had a cell phone, couldn't call Dean even if he wanted to. Dean huffed air through his nose and batted a hand at the thing, hearing it fall to the ground with a crack.

After Sam had walked out of the apartment on Thursday night Dean had been all set to follow him, to beat the living hell out of his father and take Sam back, knock the kid unconscious and hog-tie him in the backseat of the Impala if necessary. Because the kid would never have betrayed his father, and in a way Dean could almost understand Sam's warped reasoning. Betraying his own father had been considered almost a mortal sin back when he was Sam's age, and that was without the punishments and abuse. And even if he did play the hero, ride off on his white horse to rescue Sam like he was living in a fairy tale, he had no idea where to even begin looking for the kid. Fairy tales never featured imperfect knights.

The six-pack of beer he'd bought before Sam left still perched innocuously on the counter beside him, cardboard wrapping still around the bottles. He considered knocking it to the floor along with his cell phone, but the mess it would create was too much for him to deal with. _Moving _seemed too much for him to deal with right now.

He was vaguely aware that he hadn't washed since returning home last Thursday. His stubble had become a scratchy beard that itched, and his skin felt dirty and thick with grease. Awaiting him on his arrival home had been a message on his answer-phone from Principal Markenham telling him his teaching services would no longer be required at Elmstead High School. She had left a long message and Dean had only listened to the first thirty seconds before hitting the delete button.

He had failed. Everything he wanted had been lost and now he had nothing, no reason and no motivation. Sam was gone and his job was gone and his dad was gone and the entire _life _he had built for himself was all gone, all because Dean wasn't good enough.

The kitchen was empty of food and Dean knew he should get up, wash, sort himself out. But the temptation to sit and wallow in self-pity was stronger. So he sat and tortured himself with thoughts of Sam, alone with his father and hating Dean for not being able to save him.

* * *

Jim Miller was awake when Sam finally returned to the motel room that was home for the day. He was already halfway through his sixth beer of the morning.

"Where the fuck you been, boy?"

"I was driving." Sam said quietly, his eyes closed against the dinginess of the room as if he could block out his life.

"Did I tell you you could leave? Did I say you had _permission_?" Jim sneered. He stood up unsteadily and staggered toward Sam, a hand waving in front of him until his caught hold of the front of Sam's shirt. He pulled Sam toward him and Sam allowed himself to be dragged. The smell of the man's breath on his face was like rotting meat.

"Sorry sir."

"Damn right you'll be sorry." Jim raised a hand and Sam didn't flinch. The hit didn't come. "What the fuck's the matter with you?" Jim dropped the fist, his face screwing up in a snarl.

"Nothing, sir." Jim shoved him backward and he let his body fall limply, his back hitting the closed door behind him with a muffled bang. "Sorry sir."

His father stood in front of him, looking for a long moment with his lips turned down. Then the fist he'd been expecting fell heavily, catching him in the abdomen. He didn't react at all when Jim began pummelling him, hitting again and again. The pain floated around in the back of his mind like storm clouds over the turbulent sea. And above it all the full moon drifted, white and ethereal as a ghost and uncaring as death.

After Jim exhausted himself on Sam's body, he left. The convenience store at the end of the street sold cheap beer and liquor. Sam sat on the hard floor, his kidneys and stomach tender.

The room around him seemed to be moving, shifting up and down like the floor was made of some insubstantial material that couldn't hold the weight of the metal bed and chipped chest of drawers. The wallpaper was grey-blue, damp patches showing through in the upper corners and ugly framed pictures of different breeds of dog hanging on each wall. Sam stared uncomprehendingly at the pictures, the border collie in one seeming to mutate into the highland terrier beside it, and then into the saint bernard with a half-chewed sock hanging out of its mouth beside that. Distantly he heard himself groan and then cough, the shuddering motions of his chest turning into a ripple that ran through his entire body.

His head was aching like someone had reached into his skull and was alternately squeezing and releasing a hand on his brain. Sam wondered when exactly it was that he'd hit his head, the thought trickling away as the room contracted around him. The chest of drawers to his left seemed closer now, and he decided to stay still and wait for it to come to him before trying to stand up. It would be easier once the chest of drawers was beside him anyway, he could use it to support his weight. All he had to do was be patient for a while and it would come.

But his head was hurting still, the hand grasping his brain becoming a vice that was slowly being turned tighter. It worried Sam. If the vice was turned too far, his brain would burst around it like a water balloon, spraying grey and pink jelly all over the room. His father wouldn't be happy with that. Sam would be punished for making a mess, and then he would have to clean it all up.

The chest of drawers wasn't coming any closer and Sam turned away to look at a picture of a cocker spaniel sitting in a wicker basket. There was a blanket wrapped around the dog, a corner hanging over its head. The blanket was pink with white flowers. The colours seemed unnaturally bright and hurt Sam's eyes, but he didn't look away. If he ignored the chest of drawers then maybe it would sneak up on him while he wasn't looking.

Someone started up a car outside the room, a pickup, Sam guessed from the grinding heavy sound. It echoed around the room until it seemed like a thousand pickups were driving round and round outside the door. His eyes hurt as if hot sand was trapped beneath his eyelids, but closing them made the sound of the pickups that much louder. The clamp around his brain was gradually tightening.

He gathered all his strength and pushed it into his arm, willing the limb to lift. It slowly raised itself in front of him and he watched it with a detached frown on his face. A sudden sharp pain in his head made the arm fly forward to cradle his temple and he screwed his eyes shut, a gasp escaping his mouth. The pain faded slightly and then struck again, harder. The vice around his brain ended in points that pierced his temples as they dug in deeper.

The darkness behind his eyelids was filled with twitching movement, worms burrowing deep into black. And then it wasn't dark anymore. An empty street was in front of him and he _knew _his eyes were still closed, could feel them squeezing shut like they were trying to hold his eyeballs in place. But the street was still there, and it was dark and empty and nothing moved. He looked around, except he wasn't turning his head, and he wondered in the back of his mind when his head became the venue for a cinema screen apparently showing film of empty roads at night.

Then the screen stopped on an apartment building, and Sam knew that apartment from somewhere but he couldn't think straight enough to place it in his mind. A scream broke out and reverberated around him. His hunting instincts told him to run but he couldn't move, couldn't even control what he was seeing.

A thin brunette woman ran from one of the apartments in front of him wearing a white tee shirt and lacy panties. She stumbled, trying to look back and run away at the same time. Her face was a grimace of terror, frozen in the one expression like she didn't have the coordination to run and make facial movements at the same time. A low wall blocked her exit into the street and she scrambled over it, heedless of the bloody scratches gouged into her shins and knees. Behind her, something crashed within the apartment. She pushed herself forward, running into the street in her underwear and screaming inarticulately. A black shape shot from the open door of the apartment and vaulted easily over the wall, too fast moving to make out individual features, but Sam knew immediately what it was. The woman saw the wolf behind her and let out another scream, falling to the hard tarmac on her hands and knees. She tried to crawl away, leaving bloody stains in the road from her already bleeding legs, but it was too late. The wolf jumped, landing hard on her back and Sam heard the unmistakeable snap of breaking bones. A gurgled attempt at a scream escaped the woman's throat and the werewolf bent its neck and ripped the sound out, twisting the woman's head until her face hung lifelessly between her shoulder blades.

And then Sam opened his eyes and saw the motel room, the chest of drawers no nearer now than it had been before and the floor even and unmoving. His head was throbbing like he'd beaten it against the wall for an hour, but the vice in his temples had been relaxed and the sand in his eyes had washed away.

He blinked a few times and then his eyes closed, the blackness this time a soft and welcome escape.

* * *

Dean finally moved from the counter at around mid-morning. He was wearing the same boxers and grey tee shirt he'd had on for the past week, and the cold air in the room was making him shiver. His stomach growled and he ignored it. Instead he shuffled into the bathroom, taking a piss and splashing drizzles of cold water on his face to keep himself awake. Why it was so important that he should keep awake, he didn't know. As some sort of punishment perhaps, or a tribute of suffering to Sam.

He straightened at the sink and looked in the mirror above it, getting his first good look at himself for a week. His skin was practically grey and his cheeks were covered in patchy beard. Sleep crusted in the corners of his eyes. His hair was stiff with the remnants of gel and grease and he looked gaunt and dead like a freshly buried corpse.

"Christ." He whispered to himself, the warm breath fogging up the mirror. He reached a hand up, touching his face as if he wanted to check it actually belonged to him. It was only then that he noticed the smell of body odour that has been his only companion for the past week. Dean made a face at himself in the mirror, almost embarrassed by how deep he'd allowed himself to sink.

Sam wouldn't want this. Sam would want Dean to finish what he started, to kill the werewolf. Not to mope around like a pathetic loser feeling sorry for himself. He sighed. Sam wasn't here and he would probably never see the kid again. And Dean had nothing left in this town, nothing to keep him here. Nothing except the unfinished business of killing the werewolf.

He turned on the water in the shower, waiting until hot steam began to rise before shedding his clothing and stepping under the spray. He would kill the damn thing, because that's what Sam would do.

* * *

Sam awoke to a hard thump against the far wall. Disoriented, he sat up fast and blinked at the room. His father wasn't back yet. The thump had apparently been caused by the people in the next room, either fighting or fucking. Sam didn't particularly care which. He noted the headache that had receded to a dull shadow in his skull. The pains in his body he barely noticed. They had been a constant accompaniment during the last week, hardly worth thinking about anymore.

He groaned a little and raised a hand to his forehead. The…dream? hallucination? played over in his mind. He'd seen the werewolf, the one he'd left behind in Elmstead. It had been nightfall, the moon rising in the sky. The street and apartment building looked familiar and Sam squinted, trying to force his mind straight. He'd been in that street before…

Maybe it was brought on by guilt, maybe his mind had conjured the vivid scenario because inside he felt responsible for anything that might happen because he wasn't there to stop it.

The loud bang of the door swinging open and hitting the wall behind it cut off his trail of thought. Sam looked up. Silhouetted in the doorway stood Jim Miller, holding a crate of beer under one arm and a bottle of Jack Daniels in the other.

"You just gonna lay there all day boy? Get your ass up and do something useful for once, 'less you want it kicked into gear for you." He staggered into the room, dumping the alcohol on the bed.

Sam forced himself up, pushing against the wall next to him. He opened his mouth several times, trying to work up the strength to talk to his father. To push aside the certain knowledge that whatever he said would be rejected out of hand.

But he had to _try_, he reasoned. Hallucination or not, he'd seen the werewolf for a reason. "Dad…we need to go back to Elmstead." He spoke in a quiet voice, as if the softness would in turn ease Jim's reaction.

Jim looked up at Sam from his position against the bed. He appeared surprisingly lucid, his eyes clearing of fog at Sam's words and something like anger filling his expression.

"Wondered when you'd get to begging to see your little boyfriend again. Thought you'd hold out a while longer yet, thought you were stronger than that. Guess I overestimated you. I should learn, you ain't ever gonna be more than a disappointment."

"It's not that." Sam ignored the reference to Dean, pushing aside the urge to surrender quietly at his father's words. "It's the werewolf. We need to kill it."

Jim snorted without humour. "You had your chance, boy. You failed. Whatever that wolf does now, it's on your head." He sat down on the bed, cracking open a beer and reclining. "Something else for you to have on your conscience."

"_Please_ sir. We have to go back." Sam said. "People are gonna die if we don't."

Jim Miller looked straight into Sam's eyes, his eyes cold. "Yeah, they are. _And it's your fault_."

Sam closed his eyes, absorbing his father's words. The scent of unwashed clothes mingled with the heavy smell of alcohol. Sometimes Sam thought he could get drunk off the fumes if he breathed in deep enough. The curtains behind him were closed and the figure of his father in front of him was mostly in dark shadows and catches of light, as if he were a painting in black and white.

Jim was right. He should have just stuck to doing the job rather than messing around with Dean. He'd spent so much time thinking about the other man when he should have been focused on the werewolf. But Dean had been _helping _him, a part of his mind reasoned. Without Dean, he wouldn't have been able to talk to James Dale, to Will Henderson… His eyes flew open.

"Dad, I have to go back. I can't…we got it wrong, I need to talk to Dean…"

His father didn't move from his position on the bed, but Sam could see the tension winding itself through the man's muscles. His mouth twisted. "Didn't you hear me, boy? I said you ain't going back, you ain't seeing that man again unless you want me to put a bullet in his brain! Now don't you ever talk back to me, you ain't got the _right _to have an opinion!"

"Dad, please…" Jim was suddenly standing, striding to Sam with his face creased in anger.

"No! Don't you _dare _bring this up again, we ain't talking about this!"

"I have to go back!" Sam raised his head to look his father in the eye, fighting down the fear that threatened to overwhelm him. His mind felt like it was tearing in half, two equally matched sides pulling in opposing directions. "I have to tell him…" Before he could finish, Jim brought his hand down, cuffing him across the face. Sam stumbled back.

"You listen to me, boy! You don't do _nothing _unless I tell you, okay? You getting that through your thick head? You're mine, you do what I tell you to and you don't question me! You don't have a choice!"

Sam reached a shaking hand to his cheek, feeling the hot patch where his father had hit him. He kept his gaze pointed to the carpet a few feet in front of Jim Miller's feet. He couldn't win this. He couldn't argue with his father, it wasn't _allowed_. The terrified voice in his head pleaded with him to just _shut up_, give in to his father and accept his punishment for speaking out of line. And he wanted to listen to it, he wanted to drop to his knees and cower in front of his all-powerful father like the man expected.

But he'd taken on the responsibility of killing the werewolf. It was _his _job and he'd left it unfinished, left it for _Dean _to take care of.

If Dean went out hunting tonight he might be killed, and all because Sam practically coerced him into returning to a life he'd already walked away from once. And as sick as it made him feel to think about it, Sam could live with unknown strangers' deaths on his conscience. But if something happened to Dean, because of _him_…

"Dad, I have to go." Sam said quietly, lifting his head. The effort of overriding years of conditioning made his skull feel weighted with lead.

Jim stood frozen still, practically vibrating with rage. His mouth hung open slightly, like he was trying to speak but couldn't fit the words through his lips. The room looked darker than it should and Sam wondered for a second if the enormity of talking back to his father had forced night to fall earlier, as if the balance of the earth's rotation rested upon him obeying Jim Miller without question.

Sam straightened his back, dropping the hand from his face. "I'm going back to Elmstead." He said, the words coming out stronger than he felt inside.

"No you ain't, I'm telling you…"

"Dad, I'm going. I'm sorry, sir, for disobeying you. But you can't stop me."

Jim raised his fist, something like desperation flitting across his face. He lunged forward, aiming for Sam's head and Sam sidestepped. Jim staggered, trying to regain his balance. He swung the other hand around wildly, catching the sleeve of Sam's hoody and pulling him forward. Sam twisted out of his grip and took a step back, feeling tears prickle at the back of his eyes.

"Don't you dare…" His father started.

"I'm sorry dad." Jim took another wild swing at Sam, missing by miles. A breeze of air brushed Sam's face, caused by his father's furious movement. It felt like a caress. He closed his eyes for a second, his mind involuntarily calling up old memories, seeing his father in each one with the same expression of perverse hatred on his face.

Sam turned and opened the door. The sunlight flooded in, blinding his unadjusted eyesight.

"Get back here boy! Don't you walk out that door!"

The words stilled him in place, pulling him back like invisible chains. For the first time he gritted his teeth and refused to give in to them.

"Goodbye dad. I love you." His father yelled wordlessly as he stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

* * *

The sun was fiery red in the sky, lowering itself toward the horizon. Dean sat watching it, thinking deep thoughts about sunsets and apocalypses and symbolism. In the trunk of the Impala were two bags containing clothes and toiletries and medical supplies. He'd left everything else in the empty apartment that was no longer his home. All the clutter he'd accumulated in eight years and when it came down to it, he felt no emotional attachment to anything, no reluctance to leave it all behind.

He was parked around the corner from James Dale's house, out of sight. If Dale saw him before sunset then he'd be locked up in a police cell for the night. Dean had made sure Dale was actually home before staking out the house, lurking at the end of the street and trying to look casual. The man drove home late in the afternoon, parked his Porsche and walked up the driveway to his house carrying a black briefcase and wearing a pinstripe suit with shiny black shoes.

He leaned over and opened the glove compartment, pulling out the revolver and checking he'd loaded it properly for the twentieth time since arriving. His gut felt filled with concrete. He hadn't hunted alone for years, not without anyone to help him, someone to call if it all went wrong. He closed his eyes, wishing Sam were here with him. Then he forced his mind away from the subject. Sam wasn't here, wasn't going to be here. And even if he did come back one day, Dean would be long gone.

It had occurred to him as he was packing his stuff. Sam would never find him again if he left Elmstead. But then he remembered Sam, docile and defeated as a beaten puppy, following his father from the building without a word. Sam wouldn't come looking for him. He'd shoved a handful of clothing into the bag violently, scratching his hand on the zipper. Sam was gone, and Dean needed to think about his own life.

Dean could see the night approaching in the rear view mirror, darkness spreading and obscuring the sky. He took a few deep breaths. _You can do this_, he told himself, _you can do this and then…_

And then he didn't know what would happen. He had vague thoughts of finding his dad, resuming the hunt. Starting afresh and letting Dean Winchester the teacher die in Elmstead in an empty apartment.

Dean had been an idiot, a selfish and pathetic idiot. He'd abandoned his dad and the hunt to be free to follow his dreams. Only the guilt of doing it had tainted everything he achieved in school. Looking around his apartment filled with unmarked work and referrals and parking tickets, his teaching diploma stuffed in a drawer as soon as he'd moved in and untouched ever since, he admitted to himself that he'd given up before he'd even begun. He'd arrived at school with nothing and left the same way, scratching by on mediocre grades, graduating with the minimum requirements. He had been so set on pretending to be _normal_ that he'd had no time or effort left to be happy. Instead he'd lived for eight years in a self-imposed prison disguised as a life. He deliberately turned his back on everything his dad had taught him, forgetting that life in favour of hangovers and no-strings sex. He couldn't even say he had friends, anyone who would miss him in Elmstead.

Then Sam had come and literally saved his life, forcing him to wake up. In one night Dean had finally allowed himself to remember, and he didn't want to forget again because that would mean forgetting Sam and everything the kid had suffered through for Dean.

The sky was turning inky blue, the now-pale light of the sun dissolving away behind the horizon. The full moon was rising. Dean tightened his grip on the butt of the revolver and waited for the wolf to come out.


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

Thank you again to everyone who reviewed, I'm glad you guys liked the last chapter! This one was a bitch to get out, mainly because I had about twenty other things to do at the same time _and _I've been struggling with a severe case of writer's block for the past week or so, but I kept going anyway :) so I hope everyone enjoys this, the next update will be on Thursday…

Chapter 18

The moon rose, full and swollen in the sky and bright enough to bathe the street in creamy light. Dean sat unmoving in the Impala, listening intently. He'd never seen a werewolf transformation firsthand before, but other hunters had passed on stories. It was supposed to be painful, the human body screaming as the skin was torn and ripped. The person never remembered anything of its change and no one was sure why. Perhaps the transformation was too traumatic, the human mind unable to comprehend what it was going through so instead it was blocked out until the person comes round in the morning, disoriented and confused.

There were no unusual noises coming from Dale's house, no screams of pain or terror. Dean frowned and stepped out of the car, gun in hand. Maybe the wolf had already taken over? He crept as quietly as he could to the driveway, looking around for anyone who might see him skulking around outside. The last thing he needed was for someone to think he was about to break in and call the cops.

The driveway was sheltered by large dark bushes on either side. Dean slipped into the shade of one and crept up on the silent house. There were no lights on, nothing to indicate anyone was at home, but he had _seen_ James Dale go into the house. A shiver ran up his spine and he took a darting glance behind him. If the wolf had left the house from the back then it could be anywhere. Suddenly the darkness around him seemed alive with eyes, watching him with cruel intent. His hand tightened on the gun and he resisted the urge to check it was loaded again.

Approaching the house, he stopped and considered for a second. The front of the house was locked up tight, no windows or doors open for the werewolf to escape from. A small paved path led around the side of the big house. Dean glanced around to make sure he couldn't be seen by any neighbours or passers-by on the street, then raised the gun to shoulder height, gripping with both hands. Nothing moved in front of him, no sounds to indicate he was not alone. He took a breath and slowly followed the path around the building, stepping lightly on the paving stones.

The narrow path was bordered by a high fence and for a second Dean imagined the wolf behind him, cutting off his escape route into the street. He turned to put his back against the wall of the house, holding the gun pointed downward. Nothing followed him around the building.

He swung the gun back up as he reached the backyard, heart pounding heavily in his chest. A dark shape lay on the grass in front of wide glass patio doors and Dean almost fired a shot at it before he realised it was a wooden table, heavy wooden chairs pushed under it. A gasp of air escaped him and he bit back on the hysterical laugh that threatened to follow. The yard was shadowy, the light of the moon unable to permeate the cover of the bushes and trees that surrounded it. Dean squinted a little, trying to focus his eyesight. There were no sharp movements in the plants, nothing to indicate anything might be lurking there. He looked up, surveying the house. None of the windows were open, the glass doors both slid firmly shut.

Dean frowned to himself and took a cautious step onto the patio. He reached out with one hand, the other still clutching the gun, and tried the patio doors. They didn't budge and Dean stepped backward, trying to see anything he might have missed, any other way the wolf could escape the building.

Confusion overpowered his tense fear and he lowered the gun. There was no way the werewolf could have escaped the house without breaking a window or unlocking and relocking a door. He stepped up close to the dark glass and warily looked inside, trying to make out anything moving within the house. He could see no lights on inside, no TV screen or bathroom light left on. The living room looked exactly as it had when Dean had stopped by last week. If Dale had changed, then he hadn't done it downstairs.

He bit his lip, trying to decide what he should do next. Wait for the wolf to come out, or try and get in the house and go after it himself?

He slipped back around to the front of the still house, tiptoeing to the porch. He pressed close to the solid door, listening for any sounds of movement beyond it. When a minute passed and nothing happened, he carefully reached out and tried the door. It opened easily, swinging silently inward like an invitation. Dean wondered what kind of idiot person would lock up everything but the front door, and then took a step inside, gun raised to lead the way.

The hallway leading in was dark and he nearly tripped on a small table holding a pretty ornamental lamp. He stared at it for a second in derision and then closed the door behind him. No need to give the wolf a chance to slip past him and into the street to terrorise innocent people.

The living room was as he had seen it from the backyard, everything still and in its place. He walked into the kitchen, where a half-empty cup of coffee sat on the countertop beside the sink. His brow creased and he reached out to touch the side of the cup. The liquid was still warm, obviously left in a hurry.

A creak of floorboards above him froze his blood in its veins. If the wolf was upstairs then it might not be able to smell him yet, but it would also be blocking his only exit if it decided to come down. He sneaked back the way he came, his heart beating so hard in his chest he thought it might break his ribs. Dean stopped at the doorway leading back out into the hall, pointing the gun firmly in the space. He took a step, and then another, until he could see the foot of the staircase from his position. He waited, listening intently and trying to keep his breathing shallow. His lungs cried for air and he had to fight the urge to take huge raking gasps.

Another creak of a floorboard from the top of the stair and Dean involuntarily started. The gun twitched in his hand and everything seemed tight and wound. He stepped forward, face set in a hard frown, waiting for the wolf to stop playing.

And then the stairway was bathed in bright light, and the unexpectedness of it made Dean blink and waver. He sucked in a sharp breath. The sound of a door closing upstairs sounded loud in the empty house and Dean's mind span in confusion. Since when do werewolves close doors and switch on lights? He slipped quietly to the doorway, hiding his body in the shadow and peeking round to look up the stairs. A minute passed and then the door was opened and a pair of bare and decidedly masculine feet padded past the stairs. Dean stepped into the hall, forgetting in his shock that he was not supposed to be in the house, that he had, for all intent and purpose, broken in and entered illegally, and he was holding a gun in one hand. He looked up just in time to catch a view of James Dale, human and wearing pajamas and closing the door to the bathroom behind him, turning the light out in his wake.

Dean fell back against the wall, the gun hanging limply from his fingertips. He blinked hard, the bewilderment addling his brain. Dale was upstairs, alive and human and definitely _not _a werewolf. It was impossible, Dale was the only one who fit the profile and who had the symptoms. But the full moon shone brightly outside, a mocking face observing Dean's mistakes from a distance.

He wanted to slump down, stay right where he was with his head in his hands and wait for morning. Start all over and get it _right_. It didn't seem fair. If Dale wasn't the werewolf, then all Sam's research had been for nothing. All the time they had spent tracking the thing down, all the trouble Sam had gone to. He closed his eyes and rubbed a hand against his forehead. _At least you didn't shoot the guy_. He laughed humourlessly to himself under his breath.

Dean pushed himself up, straightening wearily. He still had a job to do.

* * *

"Okay, if I were a werewolf, where would I be?" Dean said out loud. The only answer he received was the purring of the Impala beneath him as he smoothly steered onto another indiscriminate street. His gun was stuck in the inside pocket of his leather jacket, the safety on.

After sneaking back out of Dale's house, chastising himself mentally for wasting so much time, he'd jumped into the car and started it up. Then he'd spent another few minutes deliberating with himself on which way was the best direction to go in. Finally just choosing a direction at random, he'd driven, trying to keep to a speed that would allow him to cover ground and still let him look around for indications that the wolf had been there.

He fought off the discouragement of having to start over from the beginning of the hunt again, humming along to the Def Leppard album he'd pushed into the tape deck. He could do this. It was fine, he just had to track the werewolf down the hard way. It wasn't anything he hadn't done before.

There were no signs of the thing anywhere. The town was surprisingly quiet for a Friday night, the few people Dean saw on his drive seeming to be heading home rather than on a night out. The sky was cloudless and deep and Dean sent a silent prayer of thanks that at least _something _was working in his favour.

He saw a group of five people walking along the street in the direction of Elmstead's only nightlife and slowed the car down to a crawl. Two of the girls walking with the group were obviously already drunk, stumbling along the curb and giggling loudly enough for Dean to hear over the music and the thrum of the engine. One of them turned and saw him, flicking her blonde hair and sending him a smile that was clearly meant to be alluring. Dean flashed his teeth at her and drove on.

He saw the dim lights of the approaching town ahead of him, glinting in the corners of his vision. The few nightclubs the town offered were bunched together, a few minutes' walk from Dean's old hangouts; dingy bars where the lights were turned low enough to flatter even the most unattractive of people and the drinks were served in dirty glasses. He remembered hours spent in the places, picking up women and getting drunk on watered-down beer, occasionally scamming some pool if he was in the mood for it. It seemed insignificant now, the thought of it making him feel faintly dirty.

Dean drove through the town, circling and taking every wandering road he could think off. No signs of the werewolf anywhere, and he was beginning to get desperate. What if he couldn't kill it tonight? It could be anywhere in the town, and Dean could only do so much. He didn't even have an idea of where to begin looking.

He huffed air through his nose in frustration and hit his open palm against the steering wheel sharply.

It was obvious the wolf wasn't in the main town, at least not yet. He swung the Impala around in an illegal u-turn and headed back toward the houses.

"C'mon Dean, think." He muttered to himself, stepping down on the gas. "There has to be something…" He wished he at least had the list of names to go on, but Sam had taken it with him when he left.

Except the only other suspect on that list had been Will Henderson. Dean frowned a little. Will's girlfriend had said he hadn't been in town during the full moon. But what if he'd lied to her? What if he _was_ having an affair and had been in Elmstead all along?

Dean took a sharp left turn, pressing harder on the gas pedal. It couldn't hurt to check. He had no other leads to follow.

He headed in the direction of Henderson's apartment building, increasing speed so the houses on either side of the car blurred past the windows in a continuous stream. The tires of the Impala squealed as he took another turn, way too fast. The panic that he'd held back in Dale's house was creeping up on him again, pulsing through his veins and urging him faster. The quiet and calm night was maddening, the lack of sound winding him up tighter like a coiled spring. He bit his lip and wrenched the car around another tight bend, gripping the wheel like a lifeline.

The full moon was in the distance, hanging low over the houses in the direction Dean wanted to go, as if it was taunting him. He chased it, ignorant of the few approaching cars he came across in the quiet street. A man in a Volkwagon Beetle hit his horn as Dean swerved past, barely missing scraping the side. He mentally apologised to his Impala for the close call.

Another corner and he was suddenly in front of the apartment building. He stamped on the brake, feeling the shudder run through the car as it was forced to a halt behind a white van parked by the side of the street.

There were no lights on in the apartment, no movement or sound. Dean let his body flop forward to hang over the wheel. He'd been wrong. The wolf wasn't here, and he'd wasted valuable time driving across town for nothing.

And then a scream cut through the still night air, violent and sharp as a blade.

Dean threw himself from the car, shoving his hand in his jacket pocket and feeling the comforting warmth of the gun against his palm.

The apartment door slammed open and Tina came scrambling out, wearing nothing but a white top and panties. Her face was tear streaked and red, her hair a tangled mess that stuck to her damp face in wisps. She ran straight at the low wall separating the apartment and the street, throwing herself over it and hardly noticing when her knees caught on the top. Dean ran toward her, gun out and pointed at the floor.

"Tina!" She looked up as he yelled her name.

"God, help me! _Please!_" Changing her course, she ran toward Dean, inadvertently blocking his view of the open apartment door. He waved the hand holding the gun, trying to get her to move out of the way, but she either didn't understand or didn't want to.

The wolf sprung from behind her, hitting her squarely in the back and knocking her to the floor. She screamed again but the sound was knocked from her as she hit the hard concrete. Dean heard a sick snap, saw her eyes roll back and her mouth work. The wolf bent to her and Dean raised the gun, firing a shot. Before he'd even finished pulling the trigger, the wolf was leaping away and the bullet only grazed its shoulder. Dean cursed and fired again, taking a step back to keep the same distance between him and it.

* * *

The Mustang shot down the empty road like a bullet fired from a gun, a cherry red streak against the night-black backdrop. The sleepy outskirts of the town paid no attention, turning away from the events with ignorant blindness. A sharp curve around a sudden corner left the car fishtailing in the road, the back end swinging dangerously and threatening to spin. But a combination of skill and luck overpowered the strong willed engine and forced it straight to continue its furious gallop.

Sam sat tightly in the driver's seat, a revolver of silver bullets loaded and ready on the passenger seat beside him. The ninety degree turn had nearly thrown it to the floor but it seemed to sense its owners need and had stayed put. Another curve had Sam slamming on the brakes and choppily throwing the car into a lower gear to the short groaning protest of the engine.

Night had fallen nearly an hour ago, the white of the moon taunting in the corner of Sam's eye as he drove. And he couldn't stop the thoughts running through his head. What if he was already too late? What if Dean had gone after the werewolf alone? If he had, he must have realised by now that it wasn't James Dale. But would he revisit Will Henderson's apartment, just to make sure? Would he be in time to save the girl, Tina?

The road evened out ahead. Dark houses on either side stretched to the horizon. Sam pressed down hard on the gas, making the responsive car fly forward smoothly. He was almost there, and he prayed to anyone that might be listening that he wasn't too late, that Dean was okay.

A sharp left turn into the street, and Sam was hit by the sudden sense of déjà vu. The scene was exactly as he had seen it in his head earlier and he felt crushing sadness at seeing Tina's irreparably twisted corpse lying in the road, her head the wrong way round and her back shattered.

Except she was in the wrong place. In his…_vision?_ she'd been lying parallel to the apartment building. Now she was on her front, but her head was facing downwards and her throat was intact.

And then he heard a gunshot. Dean stood on the sidewalk, squared off from the werewolf with his gun gripped in both hands, and a burst of warmth lit up in Sam's chest. He almost sagged in the seat, the relief running hot and giddy through him like he'd taken a shot of whiskey. Dean was okay. He hadn't been too late to save him.

Dean turned at the noise of the Mustang and in a flash second Sam saw his face, the bright headlights making it shine brilliant white.

The wolf saw its chance and leapt, and Sam tried to scream, to _warn _Dean, but there was no time.

He swung the wheel of the car around heavily, aiming for the wolf. It saw him coming and changed course, heading toward the car with feral hunger in its eyes. As the Mustang skidded sideways in the road, Sam saw the werewolf charging him head on, big and brutal as a rhino and just as unforgiving. He opened his mouth to swear but was cut short as the wolf ploughed into the front of the car, tossing him forward like a marionette with cut strings. His foot fell heavily on the accelerator and the car surged forward suddenly. Sam felt more than saw the impact as the car collided with the side of a parked white van at the side of the road.

The shrieking rip of tearing metal assaulted his ears and the sudden impact forced the car to a halt, the back end bucking up viciously. The bonnet crumpled, creases forming and imprinting in ripples, like it was made of red satin. The frame of the car warped in the pressure, all the windows exploding in a glitter of sharp fragments as they were forced to bend impossibly.

Sam's face connected with the steering wheel and the windscreen rained broken glass all around him, littering his body with sparkling shards that stung his face and hands. They caught in his tangled hair and stuck like chips of the frozen stars above.

And then everything was silent. Sam's ears rang with the memory of sound and as the ringing faded, all he could hear from his unmoving slump over the wheel was a rhythmic drip coming from somewhere in the crushed wreck of his car. Vaguely he knew he should be worried about that, and about the hopefully-dead-but-probably-not werewolf somewhere in front of him. But his face _ached_, a warm sticky mess coating his nose and chin that invaded his mouth and made it hard to breathe. Distantly he felt disgusted by it but it wouldn't stop, dripping in counterpoint to his bleeding car. A voice outside was calling his name, over and over, but he couldn't make his own voice work to answer. He tried to lift an arm to wipe his face clean but everything felt heavy and painful and _too much_. His mind slipped away quietly.


	19. Chapter 19

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

As always, thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I love hearing from you guys :) I got my writing mojo back! Just in time to write this, which is the final chapter :( but I'll be posting the epilogue tomorrow for you guys, and I'll answer all the reviews for that and this chapter (shameless blackmail; review please!) There will be a story set after this one, as there are a few unaddressed issues which observant people will have noticed, and I'll start writing that in the next few weeks. So if you liked this story and want to know what happens next, come back and read!

And now for some shameless pimping to go along with the shameless blackmail; I'm also in the middle of writing a completely unrelated insane!Sammy story to give myself a break from abused!Sammy and teacher!Dean before I start in on the next story, so if you like my writing (which I hope y'all do) then please check it out! It will be wincest of the brother variety though, so if that's not your thing then I give you fair warning…

Chapter 19

"Sam! Sammy!" Dean ran toward the hollowed wreck of the Mustang. He could hardly believe what had just happened. One minute he was shooting at that damn wolf, watching the thing practically frolicking around in front of him while he fired bullet after bullet, always just missing his target. And then…

Then that red Mustang had come careening around the corner, and Dean had thought he was dreaming, because Sam couldn't be _here_, he couldn't have come back after his father ordered him away. He had stopped dead, just staring in disbelief until the situation caught up with him a few seconds later and he turned back in time to see the werewolf lunging at him, teeth bared in its black and rancid face.

He had a second to think, to feel his heart drop and know that he'd failed, again. But the inevitable weight of the wolf hitting him like it had hit Tina, knocking the life right out of her, had never come. Instead he'd heard the screeching of tires on asphalt and turned his head just in time to see the Mustang ram the wolf head on.

The weight of the wolf had crumpled the hood and Dean had watched as Sam was tossed forward in the driver's seat with the impact. But the car had picked up speed; swinging round and flying into the white van he'd just parked the Impala behind only minutes ago.

The entire side of the van was caved in, even the alarm smashed. The emergency lights flashed silently and Dean thought disjointedly that maybe it was his hearing that had failed, maybe the incredible sound of tearing metal had shorted him out somehow.

And then he'd started running, his feet carrying him forward while his mind played catch-up. Sam had come back, Sam had saved his life. Sam was in that broken corpse of a car. And he wasn't moving.

* * *

Sam had fallen asleep in the Mustang before, and his tall skinny frame bent around bucket seats and stick shifts and handbrakes always left him with terrible cramped muscles and sore joints. But waking up this time brought with it fiery licks of pain cascading up and down his nerves. His head throbbed and he wondered for a second how he'd ended up hunched over the wheel. The seat pressed uncomfortably into his back, keeping him locked in place.

He opened his eyes, blinking to try to reorient himself in the darkness. Everything was foggy and the car door looked strange, not like it _should_ look. With more effort than should be necessary, Sam lifted a hand to rub his eyes. The knuckles were scraped raw, almost to the bone. Bits of dried blood stuck his fingers to each other and ripped pieces of skin flapped loosely around each joint. Moving his fingers flaked more skin free and fresh blood welled up. Sam stared uncomprehendingly for a second, convinced it wasn't his hand, dizzily wondering how it moved when he told it to. Suddenly panicked, he tried to wrench himself free of the constriction of the seat. It wouldn't give, instead seeming to tighten on him like the coils of an enormous snake. He pulled his other arm free and pushed blindly out in front of him, trying to free his chest. His breath came in sharp pants and he could taste thick copper on his tongue.

_Calm down_. Some part of his mind eased him down from his panic. The same part of his mind that was cool and soothing like water, that had saved him from his fathers inflicted torments and punishments by keeping him quiet and still and _sane_. It worked at his body, stopping the frantic movements and allowing him to breathe. The inflamed injuries burned like hot metal against his skin and bones but he ignored them for now.

"Sam?" The voice he vaguely recognised was calling him again. He didn't want to try moving again, it was too hard. He wanted to sleep, just for a little while. "Sammy?" The sickening noise of scraping metal sounded right beside him and he opened his eyes irritably. The driver's side door was moving, inching open with every loud scrape. He closed them again.

Then he felt hands touching his head softly, stroking back his hair and ghosting across his cheek. It felt nice. Comforting.

"Sam! C'mon kiddo, you gotta help me out here." Sam frowned a little. Then the hands were tugging at his arms, gently pulling him free and he wriggled his legs out from under the caved-in dashboard. He pushed with his legs in the direction the hands seemed to want him to go and suddenly he was falling backward, landing on something soft and warm with a bump. "Okay, ow. Maybe next time you can try _not _falling on top of me." The voice sounded shaky and weak, almost tearful, at odds with the words being spoken. Sam opened his eyes and turned his head, wincing at the ache in his neck.

"Dean?" He looked up, seeing Dean's face over his left shoulder, inches from his own. The older man was pale and his face looked damp, but his mouth spread in a smile. Dean had his arms wrapped tight around Sam's waist, and they squeezed slightly, hugging him close. It hurt, but Sam didn't say anything.

"Hey Sammy." Dean was pushing gently at him, helping him to stand and steadying him on his feet. Sam's eyes drifted closed again, the effort of co-ordinating his body and limbs too much with the added strain of concentrating on what he was seeing.

A crunching sound drifted to his ears, broken glass being scraped against metal. A low half-snarl, half whine followed by the stop-start noise of something heavy being moved with short shoves.

"Oh Jesus Christ." Dean's voice was irritated; pissed off and downright exhausted, like he just wanted to lie down and pass out. Sam understood the feeling.

The sound of shots being fired next to him made him start and he looked up, his eyes wandering across the warped shape of his car. There was a dark shape pinned between the front of the car and the white van he'd hit, writhing around and trying to push free. It let out a furious howl and suddenly Sam remembered. _The werewolf_.

Dean fired another shot from beside him, his expression set and grim, and the thing howled, this time in agonising pain. Sam could see red beginning to well up through the thing's fur. A final deadly gunshot to the chest and Sam watched as the wolf yelped pathetically, locking enraged eyes with him before limply sagging to the crushed hood. Its skull bounced against the metal once, a heavy concrete thud and Sam let out a long breath.

"Did-did you get it? Is it dead?" Sam asked, reaching out beside him and almost losing his balance. He caught Dean's arm and the older man turned to face him, the tight expression softening.

"I got it." Sam smiled tentatively, but Dean was staring at the form of the wolf, slowly shedding on the twisted metal of the Mustang.

"Is…is she…" Sam looked over at Tina's still body. Dean's mouth tightened.

"Yeah. I was too late."

"It wasn't your fault." Sam said softly, and Dean looked at him. "You killed it in the end. There isn't anything else you could've done."

Dean didn't look like he quite believed it. He looked over at Tina's body again, only the shape discernable in the darkness. The body of Will Henderson was slowly emerging from the wolf's skin, matted fur falling out in clumps onto the ruined car in front of it, revealing perfect undamaged skin that looked white in the moonlight. The man himself was skinny, which was surprising considering the size of the wolf. His open eyes gazed sightlessly out into the street in the direction of Tina's body, almost as if he was looking in disbelief.

The dripping noise was still there, louder now that the street was so quiet, breaking into his thoughts. It was accompanied by a sweet, musky smell.

"Oh shit, the gas."

"What?" Dean frowned at him.

"The gas!" Sam said, unable to force his legs into motion. Dean looked at him confusedly, until comprehension swept across his face and his eyes widened. Sam turned back to look at the wreck, just in time to see a spark flicker into life under the scrambled remnants of his beautiful car, tiny like a kittens tongue.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Sam propelled himself around, energy suddenly fed into his muscles like he'd touched a live wire. He tugged at Dean's arm, taking a last glance at his Mustang, the only thing he'd ever truly possessed, now a crumpled and sad corpse gutted beyond repair. The other man was watching the blue flame as if it held him in thrall, blinking fast. "Dean, c'mon!"

Dean finally turned at the desperation in Sam's voice. The situation seemed to enervate him as it did Sam, and then Dean was dragging him to the back of the white van and Sam saw the low black form of the Impala waiting for them. Dean didn't bother helping Sam around to the passenger seat, instead practically throwing him into the driver's door and shoving his way in after Sam.

The older man started the car with a roar and stamped hard on the accelerator, tearing down the street. The explosion that chased them with a wave of ugly heat that flooded through the open windows made Sam's eyes itch a little, but he didn't look back.

* * *

Dean drove until the lights of Elmstead were behind them. He felt like everything had happened too fast, his head still stuck somewhere in that empty apartment he'd left behind him for good. He thought maybe this was all a dream and he'd wake up at his kitchen counter in a second to find he'd been sat there all along, contemplating the multiple failures that made up his life in the unopened beer bottles beside him. He steered the Impala in a daze, feeling dizzy and slightly inebriated.

Sam was passed out in the passenger seat, and Dean worried for a second about concussions and possible comas. The kid had taken a hell of a beating, and not just from the crash. He glanced over, wondering whether he should stop the car or maybe find the kid a hospital. But then Sam twitched and murmured indistinctly, reassuring Dean. Regular sleep was good. He could go for some of that himself.

The road was illuminated in soft patches of light from the lamps above, hypnotic in their constancy. He blinked hard and concentrated on the striped line running down the centre of the empty road. They were stopping at the first motel he came to, Dean decided.

Except, what if Sam didn't want to stop? What if Sam wanted a ride back to wherever it was that he'd left his father? Maybe the guilt of leaving Dean to deal with the werewolf had been enough to overcome the kid's ingrained fear of his father, but now it was dead?

Dean shook his head. He wasn't about to just give Sam up to the man, not again. No matter what Sam said. But it wasn't like he could tie the kid to him.

His wandering thoughts were broken when Sam began to gasp in the seat next to him. Dean pulled the car over quickly. _Fuck, I should have taken him to a hospital!_ Fresh panic welled inside him like blood in a cut. Sam could be choking to death, and he had no idea what to do. And he was so damn tired.

Sam let out a loud yell, jerking upright in the seat and blinking wildly at the darkness in front of him. Dean let out a heavy sigh and almost slumped back in relief. A nightmare. A nightmare he could deal with at least.

"Sammy? Are you okay?" He asked softly, his voice low as if they were in a church. Sam spun around to face him, blank confusion in his eyes.

A puff of breath escaped Sam's mouth, still partially open in a moue from the tail end of the scream. And then he thrust his body away from Dean. He kicked the car door open with one foot and flung himself to the grassy bank beside the road in an ungainly bundle of long limbs and Dean felt like he'd been stabbed. Sam was running from him? But then he heard the sounds of retching and jumped out of the car himself, running around to Sam's side in time to see the contents of the kids stomach empty onto the wet grass. Saliva and bile trailed from his lower lip in a disgusting string.

Sam gasped for a while and then spoke softly. "Shit."

"Sam? Are you okay, kid?" Dean knelt down beside him, a hesitant hand coming to rest between Sam's shoulder blades. He wasn't sure what he should do, settled for rubbing Sam's back softly.

"'M fine. Just…had a nightmare."

"You sure? Shit, I don't even have any water or anything for you to wash out your mouth…" Dean looked up and down the dark road, half hoping an all-night convenience store would suddenly spring from the ground to avail him.

"It's okay." Sam spat out more saliva and tried to smile up at Dean, the expression shaky. "I'm fine now."

Dean reached out, supporting Sam as he laboriously climbed to his feet. Sam let Dean take most of his weight, let himself be manhandled into the car again. Dean walked around to his own side, sliding in and just watching the kid for a few quiet seconds. Finally he gathered what little courage he had and spoke.

"Sam? Do you want me to take you back to your dad?"

Sam's head lolled on the seat, rolling around until it faced him. "I-I don't know." His gaze dropped, like he had said something shameful. Dean sighed softly.

"It's okay. I'm gonna find a motel for the night. Is that alright with you?" Sam looked back up, nodding softly before turning to look out of the passenger window at his side. He didn't move, and after a moment Dean started the car again.

* * *

Dean found a motel a few miles outside of Elmstead, a dank little collection of rooms with grey painted doors and windows that hadn't been cleaned for months. He paid for a double room, leaving Sam sitting quietly in the car, staring out at nothing and thinking of things Dean couldn't imagine.

The room they were given smelt strongly of cigarette smoke, and the bed sheets were yellow with age and unidentifiable stains. Dean couldn't find the strength in his body to care. He wanted to be passed out on that disgusting bed so badly, but Sam was battered and bloody and Dean was going to take care of him, because he owed it to the kid, because it might be the last chance Dean ever got to make it up to him. And because he wanted to.

"Sam." He turned to face Sam, who was holding himself up with one shredded hand against the doorframe. "C'mon, let's get you cleaned up."

He led Sam to the bathroom, pushing him gently in front.

This time he let the kid wash his own face, remembering the last time he'd cleaned Sam up, so long ago now. He wouldn't let himself get distracted this time. Sam needed his help, not his inappropriate lust.

Without the blood marring his features, Dean could see the beginnings of two black eyes. The bridge of Sam's nose was a little swollen but there didn't seem to be a break. His lower lip was split in the left corner, giving him a lopsided pout, and red scratches were scattered haphazardly across his forehead and cheekbones. Various cuts and bruises darkened patches on his arms and legs in random patterns. But the worst injuries seemed to be Sam's knuckles. He'd wrung a towel between his hands and as he patted off fresh blood, Dean saw the torn flesh hanging in horrible flaps. He winced a little, imagining how much his already-damaged left hand must be hurting.

Sam met Dean's gaze steadily. Dean pulled out the medical supplies he'd packed, thanking god that he'd actually thought logically and brought them with him. He knelt in front of Sam, the kid sat neatly on the toilet seat. Deciding to start with Sam's face, Dean picked up a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and wet a ball of cotton wool. Sam closed his eyes but didn't flinch as it was liberally applied to his cuts in broad sweeps. The sense of déjà vu didn't escape Dean and he flushed a little, glad Sam kept his eyes closed.

Once his face was taken care of, Dean looked at Sam's hands, unsure of how to make a start cleaning up the damage. Finally he just soaked a corner of the towel with the disinfectant fluid and pressed it to one hand. This time Sam did react, hissing and reflexively trying to pull back.

"Keep still, kid. It's gotta be done." Dean said gruffly. He didn't look up at Sam's face.

After both hands were cleaned, Dean inspected the wounds. There was no way they could be sewn up, so he applied a thick layer of antiseptic and covered the knuckles with gauze, wrapping the whole thing in soft white bandages. Sam wouldn't be able to move his fingers properly for a while, but Dean hoped it would allow them a chance to heal up along with the old injury.

"Lift up the shirt." Sam made no move to do as Dean told him. Dean looked up to see Sam's face firm in obstinate refusal. "C'mon kid, I gotta check. Otherwise it's the emergency room." Sam huffed then reluctantly complied. There was a line of darkening bruises in a neat semi-circle tracing Sam's chest up to his collarbones that must have been caused by the impact of hitting the steering wheel when he crashed the car. Older bruises fading to jaundiced yellow covered his abdomen, darker around his kidneys. The thin skin covering his ribs was black. Dean looked at the unusual patterns silently for a minute. "How'd you get these?" He asked, already knowing the answer.

"Fell down the stairs." Sam said with heavy sarcasm. His mouth twisted into a tight sneer that didn't suit him.

"Sam." Dean caught Sam's wrist before he could stand up and leave the room. "Why'd you come tonight?" He met Sam's challenging stare neutrally and held it. Sam kept the mask of stubbornness up for a second before bowing his head forward until his hair covered his eyes. Dean smiled faintly at the now-familiar gesture.

"I came because I knew it wasn't James Dale. I…I didn't know if you'd go after it or not, but…"

"But what?" Dean asked gently.

Sam looked him in the eyes. "But I didn't want you to get hurt."

Dean felt himself blushing, felt that warm flush spreading. A sloppy smile threatened to break out across his face and he barely contained it, feeling irrationally tense and silly. Standing quickly, he walked back into the room, hearing Sam follow behind him.

"Dean…" Sam tailed off. Dean turned to find Sam standing close to him, had to fight the urge to put some space between then before he did anything stupid. But Sam had a determined look on his face, his eyes conveying a nervousness that Dean could feel in his own chest.

Dean didn't see Sam's hand move until he felt Sam's fingers twine with his own as best they could around the bandages, tugging him forward. He looked up, suddenly aware that Sam had grown half an inch in the month they'd been together, that he was now taller than Dean. He wondered abstractly why he hadn't noticed before.

Slowly Sam tilted his head down and Dean's eyes drifted shut automatically, his body ignoring the part of him screaming to _stop this now_.

The kiss when it came was nothing like the frantic battle of mouths Dean remembered as their first and last kiss. It was soft and smooth, drawing him in like sweet syrup, and his mind finally shut up. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been the one being kissed. With girls he was always the initiator, taking charge and leading the way. But this…this was completely different, and all Sam. He'd never been kissed so tenderly or so thoroughly. It made him feel dizzy and breathless and light-headed and all those other clichés that he'd mocked mercilessly in the movies for being so unrealistic. He pressed back gently, tongues coming out to play in the hot heat of mouths, stroking and massaging until Dean was pulled so deep into Sam he thought he'd never find his way out again. He wasn't sure he ever wanted to.

Dean kept his eyes closed as Sam pulled away gently, feeling the soft whuffs of breath brushing his face. He was still holding Sam's hand and he felt like nothing short of cutting his fingers off would ever pry him loose. He let his thumb drift over Sam's, opening his eyes slowly. Sam was watching him with a mixture of anxiety and desire, clearly expecting to be pushed away.

Dean didn't give him a chance to pull back. He brought the hand not entwined with Sam's up to trace the feline features of his eyes, his cheeks, fingertips exploring in a whisper of a touch. Sam breathed out heavily, his eyelids falling shut as Dean continued reverently feeling his way across Sam's soft skin.

Dean followed the stroke of fingers across wet lips with another sudden kiss, startling Sam into opening his eyes before he relaxed into it. Dean's hand trailed up into Sam's hair, matted with blood and sweat. He buried his fingers in the tangle, guiding Sam's head to one side to allow better access to his sweet mouth. The kiss quickly became a deep and messy press of open mouths, slow licks meeting in the middle and dissolving Dean into a giddy pliant mess. He leaned back, finding a wall behind him. Sam followed without breaking the kiss, pressing all his taut length into Dean.

When they broke apart they were both panting. Sam tried to pull back but Dean held him still with the hand in his hair, pressing his forehead to Sam's. They stood pressed together, sharing air.

"Sam. Don't go. Don't go back to your dad." The words were whispered into the space between their mouths and Dean thought it was probably the hardest thing he had ever brought himself to say. To ask, with the possibility of rejection. He would rather miss his chance than get turned down. Except somehow Sam had managed to sneak up on him, becoming the centre of his universe without him realising it, and he couldn't ever let the kid leave him. "Stay with me. Please."

Sam pulled back slightly and Dean gripped onto him harder, tighter. But Sam didn't move away, didn't do anything except focus that intense gaze onto him, dissecting him with his eyes. A tiny frown creased between his brows and Dean had to rein in the urge to stand on tiptoes and kiss it away. Instead he looked back, memorising every minute detail of the beautiful face in front of him, the world-weary eyes, until it came forward to meet his own in another kiss, heady and addicting. Sam untangled their joined hands, his arms sliding around Dean's waist. The kid let Dean support him, dropping his head to rest in the curve of Dean's neck.

Dean wrapped his arms around Sam, feeling the miniscule tremors of exhaustion running through the kid's muscles. Just as he was about to swallow his pride and suggest they get some sleep, Sam can answer him in the morning, Sam spoke, too softly for Dean to catch.

"What was that?"

Sam cleared his throat a little, raising his head to meet Dean's eyes with a shy smile that made him look innocent as he'd never been allowed to be. "I said, yes. I want to stay with you. If you're sure you…want me."

It was like a wave crashing into his body, emotions too complex and confusing to even begin to define. Tears sparkled on the nerves at the backs of his eyes and he clenched his jaw tightly to try and contain everything he was feeling, to stop it all pouring out in a jumble of relief and happiness and pure blissful sobbing. Dean looked at Sam, at everything he'd been through, seeing all the fractured and broken parts inside him intermingled with the glowing sweetness that held him together, made him _Sam_.

"I want you."


	20. Epilogue

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

Okay people, this is the end :) Thank you all so much for reading this, I hope everyone enjoyed it, if there's anything you think I could improve on feel free to let me know… As I said in the last chapter, there will be another story set a few months after this which I'll start writing within the next few weeks, so if you liked this then please stop by! Thank you again for all my lovely reviews, they encouraged me to get this written faster than I'd normally have written it!

Epilogue

Dean slipped back into the Motel room as night began to fall. Sam lifted his head, watching him from the bed as the older man unloaded a bag, opening containers of Chinese food from the restaurant down the street.

Dean hadn't let him get up from the bed for two days, discounting the need to piss or shower. He'd insisted on taking care of Sam until he was healed, despite Sam's protests that he was fine, he'd been hurt worse. Truthfully, he felt like he'd been hit by a truck and then run over multiple times, but he wasn't going to admit it to Dean. The bed rest was nice though. Sam had never been allowed to take days off, to stay in bed all day and watch trashy TV while someone waited on him hand and foot. And the fact that it was Dean who was looking after him made the experience so much more enjoyable.

Sam had struggled with thoughts of his father, all alone for the first time. Part of him wanted to go back, just to make sure Jim was alright, that he hadn't drunk himself to death yet. But the much bigger part was focused on Dean. Dean, who had kissed him and asked him to stay.

"Hey Sammy. I brought you noodles and chow mein, is that okay?" Dean said, a half-smile on his face as he looked at Sam.

Sam nodded. "Thanks." He tried to push himself up and Dean was there, pulling a pillow against the headboard for him to lean back on and guiding him to a sitting position. Sam smiled at him.

Dean brought the food over, placing the containers on the little table between the two beds. He perched on the edge of the other bed, facing Sam. Picking up a carton and scooping out a forkful of noodles, Sam could feel Dean's eyes on him, making sure he wasn't hurting in any way. The attention felt bizarre, strange after sixteen years of his life.

The two nights they'd spent in the motel room had seen Sam waking in gasps and floods of sweat. Dean thought he was dreaming of his father, and it was true, but it wasn't the beatings he relived. He dreamt that his father was dying, was asking for Sam and Sam wasn't there anymore. He didn't explain this to Dean, who wouldn't have understood. But the guilt was washed away when he woke up to Dean's soft hands, stroking his face and hair. Whispering that it was okay, he was there, he wasn't going to let anything happen to Sam.

Even the dirty and sordid room didn't matter. The water stains on the ceiling, the smell of the sheets. None of it mattered, because Dean would kiss him good morning, and good night, and anytime in between. The older man had started off sleeping in the other bed on the first night they were there. After the first nightmare, Sam pulled Dean down beside him and curled himself into Dean's arms. Dean had hesitated for a second and Sam panicked that he'd gone too far, that maybe this wasn't what Dean wanted. But then Dean's arms had tightened around his waist and he'd dropped a soft kiss to the top of Sam's head and Sam had slipped back into a dreamless sleep. Dean hadn't bothered with the other bed after that.

The bruises covering his torso had begun to fade, lightening to mustard yellow and green and purple. His hands were still sore and cut, the left still aching from the heel of his father's boot. Dean had insisted on inspecting them every morning and night, changing the dressing and rubbing in antiseptic with feather-light fingers that tickled.

They hadn't talked much, most of their time spent tangled up together on the single bed, watching the static-crackled TV, languidly kissing and petting and touching as they'd never been allowed to do before. It all felt oddly innocent, like kids on their first date. Neither had attempted to take it any further, content to explore the opportunities as they opened up in front of them.

The one time they'd had a serious conversation it had been Sam to bring it up. To ask what they would do now. Dean had smiled, slow and easy, and told him that they'd do what they'd been born to do. _What's that_, Sam had asked. _We hunt_, Dean replied as if it was the simplest thing in the world._ Together._ Sam hadn't said anything, letting his kiss speak for him.

He finished his noodles and half the chow mein before a yawn caught him by surprise. Dean moved to sit on the bed beside him.

"You tired?" He asked in a soft voice.

"Yeah. Don't know why, it's not like I've done anything except lay here." Dean smiled and stroked a hand along the side of his face.

"C'mon, bed." Sam groaned a little but let Dean manhandle him until he was lying down again. He watched Dean strip out of his jeans and shirt, a smile playing at his lips. It felt odd knowing he was _allowed _to watch, that he didn't have to hide or turn away so Dean wouldn't catch him. Dean was his…friend? Boyfriend? He didn't know how to define what they had, pushed the question away for another day.

Dean walked to the bed, lifting the covers and sliding in beside him. His body was hot and solid and Sam turned toward it, pushing under Dean's arm so he could lie spread along his side. His head found its spot under Dean's chin and his hand slid up to rest under the thin tee shirt, fingers splaying across the other man's toned stomach. Sam sighed heavily, his eyelids sliding shut. The warmth of their combined body heat lulled him downwards.

"Night, Sammy." A kiss was pressed firmly to his forehead, sending him to sleep like a lullaby.


End file.
